


Snowdrop

by Cuptivate



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Bilbo is BAMF, Brotherly feels, Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfot, Erebor Reclaimed, F/M, Family Feels, Protective Dwalin, Romance, angst with happy ending, family love, finished work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-14 22:09:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17516747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuptivate/pseuds/Cuptivate
Summary: ‘koi no yokan’ – Japanese (n) lit. “Premonition of love”, the sense one can have upon first meeting another person that the two of them are going to fall in love. This differs from the idea ‘love at first sight’ in that it does not imply that the feeling of love exists, rather it refers to the knowledge that a future love is inevitable.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story came about after I had a dream. There was some nightmarish terror (which I couldn’t remember as soon as I woke up) that sucked the life out of everything, lots of fleeing and then the presence of someone whose spirit was larger than life and who gave a sense of warmth and utter safety. There was no longer any need to hide, or to pretend, or to be brave. I woke up feeling utterly content with myself and cherished. Remembering that feeling I transposed it to a story featuring our favourite hulking dwarf - and it almost wrote itself :)
> 
> This work is finished. While I’ll not commit to specific days for uploading chapters (you know, life might get in the way and all that) it will happen relatively swiftly.

“You alright with your schedule?” Dwalin asks, for the umpteenth time, while he sits on the end of the bed and puts on his boots. He knows he has thought of everything that can possibly be thought of, but still he goes over it one more time. “Bifur will be waiting for you at the training grounds at the second bell every morning. Afterwards you’ll have plenty of time to freshen up and get some correspondence prepared Dori can help you with later or get other chores done before Elevensees. Since Bilbo isn’t here you’ll have to go to the Great Hall to get your meal, but Bombur knows to be on the lookout for you. You can go to your workshop till lunch, and again in the afternoon, or spend time with Dori, or with Bofur, or the lads, before you go back to our room and get ready for dinner. Depending what’s on, in the Great Hall more formal or just in the Company’s private dining room, or likely Dís will host some dinners-“

“Dwalin,” Niéle laughs one of her sweet, bell-like laughs that are so precious to him, and slides into his lap, only slightly hindered by the bulk of his armour, winding her slender arms around his neck and burying her hands in his thick hair, “I’ll be fine.”

His strong arms immediately hold her slim waist tightly. “I worry,” he admits with a sigh and a whiskery kiss to her berry-red lips. “Forgive me, my snowdrop, but I can’t-.”

“You can’t help it, I know.” Her warm brown eyes light up as ever when he calls her that and she tilts her head and kisses him back. “And it is very sweet, thank you,” she says gently when she withdraws with a regretful little sigh, “But I can be on my own for a little while. Besides, it’s not as if I _am_ on my own, surrounded by the Company, all my friends and your family. I’m as safe as can be. You’re the one going into much more potential trouble. You and Bilbo.”

Dwalin knows she’s worried about the two of them leaving the mountain. In general because even it’s been six months since the Battle of Five Armies there still are the occasional bands of orcs about. And in particular because despite of what she’s saying Dwalin knows she does not like the thought of being without him and Bilbo, both. But he huffs, pretending to follow her lead and jokes instead. “If you mean the leaf-eaters you’re not wrong. They are always trouble, even if there’s no trouble expected.”

“Elves, Dwalin,” she admonishes with a giggle, and he knows she sees right through his attempts to distract her from her fears. “You cannot call them leaf-eaters when Bilbo is about. Besides, they are Erebor’s allies now ...” Dwalin rolls his eyes; an ally the Greenwood might be now, but he has not forgotten the dungeons, “... and Tauriel might soon be a resident of the mountain as well, if Kíli’s hopes and wishes come true.”

Their connection is inexplicably strong, has been from the moment Dwalin lay eyes on Niéle in Bag End, so she understands what he does not say and she knows what his eye-roll means: they have not once spoken about how she shattered while locked away in Thranduil’s dungeon, focusing more on the present and the future and thusly making sure her mind does not catch up with her again. For a moment her expression is veiled, cautious and filled with trepidation, and Dwalin can see the memories drag through her brain, deep and heavy. She dips her head and looks at the floor, suddenly timid, as always when her consciousness overwhelms her.

Dwalin reaches for her hand, feeling for the callouses on her fingertips that tell of the hours of delicate work she does with bone, horn and shell. Her skin feels like the most exquisite silk under his rough, forge toughened and calloused touch and those small imperfections make her even more beautiful in his eyes.

He prods her gently, that lovely woman that still wistfully holds on to her lightheartedness. Her very soul is beautifully pure, despite knowing him, despite the quest, despite the dark evils that touched her - which she cannot even remember beyond fragments. “Dís has enough trouble wrapping her head around Bilbo as her brother’s consort and you as my soon-to-be-wife,” Dwalin grunts with a wry grin. “Best not mention Kíli’s soft on the elf lass just yet. It’s plenty to sink in that she’s saved Kíli’s life. Let that settle in Dís’ head for a while before the next big reveal.”

Niéle gives a light laugh. “Poor Dís,” she says. Then she becomes serious, her pretty brows knitting in a frown. Dwalin knows the stern, majestic attitude of the Princess of Durin is something that is perplexing and confounding to her, almost more than Thorin was at the beginning of the quest, when he was all brooding and grumpy and peeved beyond comprehension at the wizard’s insistence to bring the hobbit, who in turn insisted on bringing Niéle. “Dís will be glad that you’re gone for a while and won’t be able to corrupt me, as she calls it. And when you and Bilbo are back we can get the wedding planned and after that Dís won’t have anything to grumble about.”

Dwalin scowls and knows he is doing a poor job hiding his annoyance at the Princess’ constant needling. He’s told her off, too, but the only female in the Durin household tends to be utterly deaf to anyone’s opinions but her own. “As far as I’m concerned, my snowdrop, you are already mine, no amount of ceremony can make you more mine. But I know it means a lot to you and I won’t deny I’m much looking forward to see you in one of them Shire dresses you and Bilbo have been talking about, all lace and flowers.” He lifts a hand and runs his rough palm adoringly over her long, thick, earth brown hair. “You’ll look stunning and I’ll have to have a care not to see my heart burst with love.” He kisses her again. “And I very much look forward to be unwrapping you from that dress at the end of the day, like the very gift you are.”

She blushes prettily, and it amazes him once again that she still reacts like that when he compliments her. Because he compliments her a lot. And why not? Compliments might not have been something she was used to, in the Shire, even though Bilbo is the best friend-slash-uncle-slash-pseudo-brother-slash-not-quite-father to the lass anybody possibly ever could be, but Dwalin still does his best to make up for anything she might have missed out on in that regard. It is easy enough: he loves her dearly, sweet and shy and at the same time open as she is.

Clearing his throat to cover how he’s taken by the pink flush that creeps from her expressive face down her slender neck and disappears into the wide neckline of her hobbit-style blouse Dwalin sighs. “I’ll send a raven every second day,” he promises - again, “And I’m looking forward to yours.” She nods her consent and he goes over the list in his head - again. All her tools are sharpened and have been looked over, Dwalin’s had a talk with everyone from the Company, but especially Glóin, the lads and Bifur, as they are the ones she trusted enough right from the start to not shy away when they touched her.

Niéle hums and her warm brown eyes look at him with unmistakable fondness. As Niéle gently tugs her hand from his grip and lifts it to smooth the frown on his forehead with her fingers a smile tugs on Dwalin’s mouth. He knows he’s smiled more often since first laying eyes on Niéle a bit more than a year ago than he did in all his years before that precious day.

“I’ll not forget it,” she says softly, pressing a kiss to the scar that cuts through his eyebrow - she does it a lot, as if trying to soothe a hurt long past. “Thank you, Dwalin, for working so hard to make sure I’ll be as alright as I can be. You are the best dwarf a girl could wish for.”

He grunts, feeling curiously bashful about her praise.

She smiles again and her small palm gently strokes his bald head. Niéle knows him too well. She’s all hobbitish manners, never forgetting her pleases and thank-yous, but she’s also always careful when talking and especially when listening, even with him. Dwalin knows she’s been through unspeakable darkness, she’s told him enough for him to understand even though he’s aware that there are still bits she keeps secret, from him and from Bilbo both. He can feel it every time she comes to a standstill and frowns minutely as if trying to find her bearings. He can see it in her rich brown eyes that sometimes gloss over for a heartbeat, hiding behind long eyelashes before tension leaves her again.

It does not bother him, on the contrary.

He appreciates that she’s heedful in trying to keep her mind in order and has encased her soul - pure and soft and malleable like gold as it is - in hard, unyielding steel. Dwalin is well familiar with that. Hasn’t he done the same to his heart, has surrounded it with thick walls of granite and fortified it with much scowling, bristling gruffness and hard-as-nails toughness? In over a century nobody came close enough to bother discovering that his insides remained ever sappy and dead ready to melt for a friendly word and a smile - apart from his closest family.

And then Niéle came into his life. Niéle, who finished his sentences mere minutes after they met for the first time and immediately made him feel like they’ve always belonged together but never found each other before then. Niéle, whose bright spirit sparkles like the most precious multi-faceted jewel any dwarrow mine has ever discovered.

And despite her pint sized body and puny muscles Niéle has proven that she’s tough as nails, too, the dangers of the quest not really scaring her beyond her concerns for Bilbo, for him and the rest of the Company. Dwalin knows that it should worry him that neither orcs nor goblins held much scare for her and that her own death is not something she fears, because does that not tell that she’s encountered much worse, lived through much worse? Only Mirkwood had her truly struggle, and Dwalin is glad he was able to be there for her once they were thrown into Thranduil’s dungeons.

A hand at the back of her head and the other slung around her waist, Dwalin pulls her close and sighs against her lips. “I loathe leaving you, Amrâlimê,” he whispers and focuses his entire being on kissing her. Despite the hindering armour her softness settles into his solid bulk as if they were both made just for that very purpose.

Dwalin takes his time to kiss her thoroughly and when he finally withdraws Niéle‘s berry-red lips are glistening and her warm eyes are hazy with bliss. Remembering how mere hours ago he woke with Niéle‘s belly pillowing his head as she combed her fingers through the mass of his tousled hair and beard - _after_ he had made his muscles dance for her, waking that utterly addictive possessive expression on her face - and _after_ her lips had walked wild on his skin, frolicking with the ink lines of his tattoos - he knows that he won’t be able to leave if he does not go right now. So he pulls her in for a hug with a groan that conveys his reluctance, but then resolutely moves her off his lap and steadies her to stand before him with a hand on the gentle curve of her waist.

He, too, gets to his feet and takes her hand. “Let’s not have Bilbo wait,” he says and knows he does a bad job keeping his voice firm. He pulls her with him as he makes his way to the sitting room. A quick glance around what was once Frerin’s apartment - all hard lines and screaming royal warrior prince - is now filled with plush furniture and little trinkets that show a woman’s homely touch: vases filled with flowers, colourful fabric and silk scarves, pretty hairpins and sweet scents. There is also a jar with cookies, which Niéle never lets run empty, a pretty tea-set with large-handled mugs instead of dainty cups, and bowls filled with nuts and fresh fruits.

Aye, his Niéle very obviously has been raised by a hobbit. Although - unlike Erebor’s resident Shire representative - Niéle is not keen on maps and books and matters of a scholars' kind. Instead she’s quite the expert button-maker, entirely happy with cutting and carving and drilling the minuscule pieces of horn and bone and shell and turning them into the most practical yet exquisite works of art. Dwalin plans on teaching her how to carve moulds when he returns from the Greenwood, so she can expand her range and also offer buttons made from gold, silver and brass. Her creations are quite sought after, especially with the merchants going West and South. Bilbo has done well discovering this activity for her to keep her hands busy, and Dwalin couldn’t be prouder of her skill.

As they walk down the corridor and make their way to the Gate he stops often and pulls Niéle to the side to tend to her berry-red lips. He loves when he can feel her smile in the middle of their kiss. He also loves that despite their impending good-bye there is a merry glint in her eyes. It lets Dwalin hope she is settled enough to cope with both him and Bilbo leaving her for a few weeks.

The escort accompanying the Royal Consort is already fully assembled in the Great Entrance Hall. Dwalin leads Niéle to Bilbo, who stands with Thorin, Balin and Dís, but immediately turns his attention to her and smiles warmly when Dwalin hooks her hand under the hobbit’s arm. He excuses himself with a swift kiss into her thick brown hair and walks over to inspect the prepared wagons and the warriors that are selected to accompany them.

When he’s done he sees Bilbo is still speaking with Niéle, his hands gently on her shoulders. She is a few inches shorter than the hobbit, reminding Dwalin once more how truly tiny she is for a Daughter of Men. It worries him sometimes, this obvious discrepancy between her stature and how other woman of her race have grown - and it would worry him even more were he not well aware of the gentle womanly curves that are hiding under her ruffled blouse and petticoated skirts.

She laughs now, good-naturedly, and Dwalin can tell that she is taking it with humour that Bilbo likely reiterates all the things he already said several times in the days prior, same as Dwalin.

Dwalin feels a wry grin tugging at his mouth. Then his eyes fall on Dís, who is watching the interaction of his woman and the hobbit with an expression he cannot quite decipher, and his grin slides off his face. He knows he would not be leaving the mountain if not for the Princess. Dwalin has no care about what others call propriety and it matters not to him that no official ceremony has bound him and his Niéle. He knows they are one. But he also knows that Niéle very much hopes for Dís’ approval of her and that is the only reason he has agreed to accompany Bilbo.

“She will be fine,” Thorin says as he steps beside him.

“Hm,” is all Dwalin responds to that. There is a lot Thorin does not know about Niéle. His King and best friend still sees nothing more than a blood-young and slightly naive woman that neither has the intellect nor the polished manners that are required to move in the diplomatic circles of the royal court. Dwalin has little love for books and none whatsoever for politics - he happily leaves both to his brother. And he has no love for the nobles that - by and large - were an opinionated, arrogant, superficial bunch. As such he has no intention for having Niele exposed to them, guileless as she is she is completely unsuitable for politics; although he is certainly aware that she will be under some scrutiny once they are officially bound he also is certain that between him and Bilbo they will manage to keep her away from the vultures that move amongst Erebor’s nobility. The normal folk are charmed by her natural ways, Dwalin knows, he sees it every time they spend time together in the communal areas of the mountain: the fact that she so obviously loves him and does not shy away of showing it in public no doubt part of her appeal.

Dwarrow were romantic saps, the lot of them, and who could resist a love story?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice I've not bothered with chapter titles and summaries this time, to keep the suspense. As always I use 'dwarrow' for the plural of the race, male and female, and 'dwarves' for the plural of the male dwarf.

Farewells are quickly said and after a final embrace and a last, lingering kiss to Niéle’s berry-red lips Dwalin leads the Royal Consort’s protective escort from the mountain.

First, Niéle stays beside Thorin, Dís, Balin and the others of the Company that made their way to the Gate to see them off. Then he sees her step out on the small balcony on top of the ramparts. Every time Dwalin turns around he sees her watching and waving, the white dot of her blouse getting smaller and smaller, until she is out of sight.

Immediately, her absence makes his heart ache. It reminds him of the day when he left her behind in the mountain to go to battle. It is not a pleasant memory. Distracting himself best he can by focusing his attention on his surroundings and the road ahead he is quiet and deep in thought for a long time.

They leave Dale to the side and directly turn South-East, towards the Forest surrounding the Woodland Realm. It is well past midday when Bilbo steers his pony next to him.

“She will be fine,” the hobbit says quietly, judging by his solemn face he’s saying what he desperately hopes himself. Dwalin nods with a grunt and they share a long look, each taking in the others dour expression with a keen eye. Their lips curl into wry grins at the same time and Bilbo sighs. “I am sorry Thorin’s sent you with me. I know you’d much rather be staying with her, and frankly, I’d much rather have you staying with her as well instead of playing babysitter for me when we both know that absolutely nothing is going to happen to me during this diplomatic visit, aside from increased stomach acid thanks to Thranduil’s Dorwinion wine.”

Dwalin couldn’t agree more. On all accounts. “Aye. We also both know that it’s better I’m gone for a bit. Making myself scarce for a few weeks hopefully will appease Dís and make it easier for Niéle. And when we get back I can officially marry her and all that official nonsense and then it’s done good and proper.”

“You make it sound as if it’s just a formality.” The hobbit sounds curiously doubtful and Dwalin cocks an eyebrow at him. “Is it not? I knew I would fall in love with her soul before I even touched her skin. By now she’s mine as I am hers. As I’ve told her this morning, no ceremony can change that.”

Bilbo smiles, his hazel eyes twinkling. “I do not doubt you, my friend, nor her. She has never reacted to anyone as she has reacted to you, and your connection has grown every day since then. But I do doubt that certain people in the mountain would agree with you on the ‘good and proper’ part.”

Dwalin grunts. “Dís is overreacting. She should be glad an old fart like me has set his heart on someone and is accepted in return. Niéle is good for me, and her future in the mountain is bright with promise.”

“I think Dís has more issues with the fact that several dwarves of the line of Durin are showing absolutely no interest in setting their heart on dwarrowdams. Instead we have a King who has made a hobbit his Consort, an heir who moons after the Princess of Dale, another heir who moons after an Elf, and a renowned warrior and best friend to the King who already in all intents and purposes lives with a most peculiar Daughter of Men in a way only married couples should live together.”

Dwalin’s bushy eyebrows shoot up at the mention of the Princess of Dale - he has not picked up on that. But. “I don’t think Dís has realized that the Elf lass might soon live in the mountain.”

Bilbo waves him off. “She can sense the change in Kíli, even if she hasn’t quite put her finger on what is going on in his head just yet. Her motherly feelers are out. And everyone keeps telling me that Fíli is much like his father, and Dís knows how that dwarf looked love struck. As for you ... even though I’m sure the fact that you’ve settled on a Daughter of Men irks Dís - and even more so that you two share a bed, even if it is with my consent - I think it is the fact that the Daughter of Man is _Niéle_. And you and I both know that Niéle is ... different.”

Aye, Dwalin knows. It’s true, she’s delicately pretty in a natural, untamed way, and as far away from most dwarrow’s perception of what a Daughter of Men should look like as possible - and not just because of her size. But for all her gentle lightheartedness there is something undeniable strange about her edges. Something haunted. Something ... not from this world. Dwalin knows this. He has seen it the moment he sat down at Bilbo’s table opposite from her. Despite being a century too old and a lifetime too marred Dwalin in essence is a simple dwarf that doesn’t put too much thought into things but takes each day as it comes, preferably with his axes firmly in his hand.

But Niéle ... Niéle has a way to make him thoughtful. And he finds he quite likes being thoughtful.

 

~*~

 

The journey takes them less than five days, thanks to the Elven guides that await them at the edge of the forest. Travelling with Elven guides makes the Greenwood almost pleasant, Dwalin would readily admit it. Especially since the forest is very obviously healing, deserving of its name once more.

He’s sent two ravens to Niéle already, and received two in return. Dwalin has done his best to elaborate on the journey in his missives, giving as much details as possible because he knows she’ll like that. Her letters in turn are relatively short and it is obvious that she’s had help with them - Dwalin guesses Bombur helped with the first one and Dori with the second - but he loves every ink stroke on them, knowing they are from her own hand, even if the wording needed assistance. She’s signed them with ‘I love you, my heart’ and ‘I dream of your arms around me’ and Dwalin carries them both under his tunic, close to his heart.

Thranduil’s palace is only slightly more appealing than the last time Dwalin was ‘a guest’ there - all airy and with too much flimsy wooden furniture that Dwalin doesn’t trust to hold his bulk - despite the substantially better lodgings. Bilbo agrees with him on that, not surprisingly. Dwalin has long learned that the hobbit can be rather snarky when he means to. And if Dwalin’s accomodations were ... lacking ... the last time, so certainly were the hobbit’s, seeing as he had had none. With all that Bilbo has achieved for the Company and since he has confided to them about that magic ring of his Dwalin is not too concerned about his safety in the realm of this new ally of Erebor. He enjoys it, in fact, to watch the hobbit engage in quite a bit of verbal sparring with the Elfking.

No, the hobbit can hold his own, there is no doubt about that.

The days pass with negotiations, tours and fancy dinners. The Elves like Bilbo. They appreciate his thirst for knowledge and his attempts to speak their language. They indulge him, quite delighted, and in turn he’s generous with his praise and the things he knows best: gardening and cooking. The Elfking actually smiles when he sees Bilbo knee deep in soil while he discusses seed propagation and shows the Elven head gardener how hobbit’s trim fruit trees so they bear more prolific.

The Elves are amazed by the hobbit’s need for food, and give him free reign in the kitchens at any time of the day. Bilbo shares his father’s recipe for a light herb-bread and Dwalin is pleased to see that it is received with all the due reverence and gratefulness. Elves may be many things, but Dwalin would not ever have said that they are stupid. And with every passing day it becomes clear that the Elves very much appreciate and respect not only the hobbit, but the Royal Consort of Erebor. At times, Dwalin suspects, they forget that he is there on behalf of a dwarf.

Which is exactly what Thorin has bargained for, and Bilbo uses to his full advantage.

Yes, Dwalin has thoroughly come to like the hobbit.

And even more so because of Niéle.

“You know I would never have come with you if not for Niéle,” Bilbo says late one evening, when they sit together on the small balcony of the hobbit’s room and indulge in a bit of smoking, the one thing the Elves are not fond of partaking.

Dwalin just quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Had she disliked you, or shown any fear or hesitance, I would never have come on the quest,” the hobbit elaborates, “I was prepared for it, actually, and was already forming the words to send you on your way and bar the door to the rest of the Company. But Niéle instantly warmed to you, as surprising and baffling as it was, still is, in fact.” He grins apologetically and blows a particularly pretty smoke ring over the balustrade and into the night. “Considering you basically barged into Bag End, armed to the teeth and looking rather ferocious, eating my dinner like a starved beast, with no manners whatsoever ...”

Dwalin chuckles at the memory. Aye, he had shown rather atrocious manners that day. Had the outcome of their quest been any different he’d probably feel bad about it. But as it is, he doesn’t.

Dwalin remembers two things above all from that night at Bag End: how hungry he was, and the calm that washed over him when Niéle’s eyes fell on him. Hungry because, since Gandalf had told them they were to expect a very good dinner in the Shire they had preserved their rations as much as possible and had, in fact, not eaten anything since two days prior. So when Dwalin, who was sent in first to scout and determine the safety of the burglar’s place, walked in to the smell of dinner his stomach as good as decided his next steps for him, leading him straight to the table and that delectable fish. Self-preservation went into overdrive and he couldn’t help himself devouring it.

All while Niéle watched him from her seat across the table, neat and pretty. Her brown eyes had been wide, but in surprise, not fear, and her berry-red lips parted while she stared at him in amusement, not disgust, and when his most raving hunger was stilled Dwalin noticed baffled that she seemed curious more than bothered. Her eyes lingered on his scars and on his missing ear, on his broad shoulders and hard, calloused, knuckleduster-clad hands. And then her small, suntanned fingers crept across the tablecloth and shyly brushed against his.

_“What’s your-“_

_“Niéle, I am Niéle.”_

He’ll never know how she finished his sentences from that day on. Dwalin remembers that he briefly wondered at the ridiculousness of falling in love in less time than it would take for him to properly swallow that lovely grilled fish.

How he questioned if it was that? Love?

No, he knew instantly. Not love. _Not yet_.

Then, what Dwalin knew of love was only what others spoke of. They described deep and mysterious feelings, inexplicable with mere words, feelings that made their brains fizz, their blood simmer, their hearts thump, their hands shake, their knees go weak ...

It was none of that for Dwalin with his Niéle. Used to perpetual wary alertness he - for the first time since he was a dwarfling - had a feeling of content calm settle over him. Sitting at Bilbo’s table, while his eyes took in her warm, shining gaze, her earth-brown thick hair that hung wild and free down her back, only marginally tamed by thin braids circling her forehead and her berry-red lips that had curved into a gentle smile, Dwalin was hit by a sense - like a premonition of sorts - which gave him the absolute knowledge that it was inevitable the two of them were going to fall in love.

And since that day a profound awareness of all that was Niéle permeated his very being; and from that first, inexplicable bond the affection and fondness between them grew to a deep-set and solid love, sturdy as the mountains and unchangeable as the order of night and day.

“You’re staring into space, Dwalin,” Bilbo’s warm wryness interrupts his musing, and Dwalin forces himself to mentally come back to the room.

He grunts and busies himself with his own pipe that has gone out. “Just thinking back on the first days of the quest.” Thorin’s agitation and unnecessary harshness had made travel difficult and uncomfortable. Dwalin, who was of the opinion that their path through the Wilds held enough potential danger felt he had little patience for his brooding friend and King. He rather focused his attention on the safety of the Company. And on Niéle. Who had been included in the group rather quickly, her youthful enthusiasm about everything and anything proving too infectious for the dwarves to resist. Even though there had been an incident or two where she recoiled from physical contact, paling with a forced, frozen smile and burrowing into Dwalin’s side, only calming when Bilbo brought her tea and spoke to her patiently and quietly. It became abundantly clear then that there was more to Niéle than met the eyes.

_"Niéle, get out of the rain now, lass, you’re soaked to the bone and it won’t do to-“_

__

_“I won’t get sick, Dwalin, I promise, I never do. It is only a little bit of water and I love rain. It’s so ... refreshing.”_

__

While she seemed comfortable with Glóin to the point that she agreed to sleep between him and Bilbo when Dwalin was on watch at night, happily laughed at Fíli and Kíli’s jokes and innocent banter and seemed to thoroughly enjoy sitting with Bifur and watching him carve - her brown eyes fixed on the dwarf’s hands as he worked - she very obviously preferred to keep a little distance to the others. She was still delightfully friendly and sweet to all of them, but an invisible line remained that neither side crossed.

__

And her face ever brightened when her gaze fell on Dwalin.

__

The hobbit chuckles. “Ah,” he says with a fond smile, clearly drawing from his own memories. “His majestic grumpiness. He made things difficult, in the beginning. Things did change a bit, after the trolls.”

__

The trolls. Dwalin doesn’t want to remember the trolls. Because all he could think of while turning on the spit over the fire was Niéle, and how his insides turned to ice at the thought she would be left alone if both he and Bilbo were to perish.

__

“I’ve never seen Niéle look happier then when you danced with her in Rivendell,” Bilbo says now, sliding a little grin in Dwalin’s direction.

__

_“Dwalin, spin me!”_

__

_“Not so wild, lass, you’ll get-“_

__

_“I love getting dizzy. And you’ll hold me, won’t you?”_

__

_“Aye, my Niéle, I’ll hold you.”_

__

Dwalin likes dancing. In a way dancing is like fighting. The steps for both have method and rhythm, something he is very familiar and very comfortable with. Still, he has not ever danced with someone who innately understands him like Niéle does, nor with someone who he innately understands like he does his Niéle. He’d known before, but in Rivendell, while they dance, he truly understands the depth of the bond between then. It’s inexplicable. But it’s thoroughly gratifying.

__

“Never thought I find someone ...” Dwalin tries to explain, his voice much gruffer than he intended and he clears his throat. “Never thought I find someone who cares to have me all sweet, kind and gentle-like. It was never required of me. It was never asked of me. But Niéle ... she brings out that dwarf in me that I thought long lost and forgotten.”

__

Bilbo’s eyes look at him knowingly. “You are a good dwarf, Dwalin. Times may have required of you to show only your gruff demeanor, but times are better now. And it is good you found someone who completes you.”

__

Dwalin thinks for a moment. Then he shakes his head. “No,” he says, “it’s not like that. My Niéle does not complete me. She’s herself, as I am my own. What she does is love me with so much conviction and so much heart that it is nearly impossible for me to doubt just how capable I am in becoming exactly the dwarf I always wanted to be.”

__

Bilbo nods thoughtfully. “Yes,” he says, “I understand what you mean. I think it’s the same for Thorin and I: we each are better for the certainty and confidence we are given from the other. It is good that way. Better than this completing business. For completing someone implies one was not whole before. It’s not how I ever have felt. But ...” He puffs on his pipe and narrows his eyes at Dwalin “... even though Niele’s been herself for a long time, too, it was not always that way. You know that she’s seen darkness, yes?”

__

Dwalin gives a curt nod. “She’s told me, aye, some of it, and some of it I’ve guessed. She’ll not see darkness again, ever, if I have a say in it.”

__

“I pray you’re right,” the hobbit sighs, “For it was not pretty. Years, it has taken years to see her well and turn into the beautiful young woman she is now. I’ll very gladly lay her hand in yours when we get back to Erebor, Dwalin, my friend.”

__


	3. Chapter 3

_“Soon, my Niéle, we’re out of here soon, you’ll see. Bilbo will find a way.” If anyone can find a way to spring them from the woodsprite’s dungeon, it’s the hobbit, Dwalin believes that with all his heart. And he knows that the hobbit will desperately work on a plan, any plan, seeing how Niéle disintegrates before his very eyes._

_Dwalin has managed to grab her and hold her tight the moment the Elves poke their arrows in their faces. She had been calm, if still rather drowsy from the spider’s venom. Of course they put Dwalin’s hands in chains, he knows what he looks like and he would too, in their place. They do not bind Niéle though, which - grudgingly - has him grateful. Dwalin manages to keep her going with sweet words and encouragement, hanging on to him with one hand and stumbling and struggling along, avoiding the Elves touch her. He sees the change in her the moment the gates fall shut with a clang behind them, growing ever more withdrawn the deeper they go in the damnable Elf-city._

_“Leave her with me, for pity’s sake!” he pleads when they reach the dungeons and he sees the cells, ready to fall on his knees to beg. Mercifully, the red-haired Elf gives her orders in their favour, and Dwalin finds himself with a paling Niéle in his arms. She’s trembling and ice-cold, and her eyes are wide and panicked._

_“Dwalin,” she whispers when the bars slam shut._

_“I am here, my Niéle,” he tries to soothe, pulling her tight against his chest, because that’s all he can do. When Bilbo appears out of nowhere a few days later Niéle has fallen into an unresponsive stupor. The hobbit takes one look at her and when he reaches through the bars into the cell as good as he can to hug her and reiterates the same lines of a poem over and over and over again Dwalin realizes that she’s losing herself to some old and dark memory, and he understands that the hobbit tries to remind her who she is now, and not think of who she was at one time before._

_It’s an approach that makes sense and seems to work, as Niéle is marginally better._

_“Dwalin,” she whispers tonelessly, her normally berry-red lips completely colourless and her beautiful brown eyes wide as saucers in her pale face. “Dwalin, is that fog?”_

_“There’s no fog here, my snowdrop.” My snowdrop. It’s the first time he calls her that but the word flows from his lips as if he’s said it a million times._

_She blinks. For a moment her eyes seem to see him clearer and the ghost of a sweet smile plays around her lips. “Dwalin.” It sounds like an endearment._

_Then she speaks of a time where her life consisted only of cold and grey shadows under a pale sun. When a deep and chilling voice, petrifying wails and voices coming straight from the ground were the only sounds she heard. When the cold grip of icy hands the only touch she received. She tells him of heavy air and how helplessness and the feeling of being hopelessly trapped ruled her days._

_It scares him, this talk of ancient foes that have touched her life. It scares him to see the shadows of darkness and a lost mind in her eyes. The more she tells him the more she cracks and gouges him open in turn._

_In the end he does the only thing he can think of to keep her mind with him and in the present: he kisses her._

_It seems to work. When Dwalin finally removes his mouth from hers she’s still too pale, but her lips are berry-red once more and swollen from his kisses, and she’s not fallen back into the blankness._

_It’s how they continue to spend the next days: between kisses and soft touches they share daydreams and memories. Dwalin tells her snippets of his life in Ered Luin and from when he was a dwarfling in Erebor. Niéle tells him about party tricks, stolen apple pies and mushroom hunts in the Shire. Dwalin reveals his longing for having his own family. Niéle confesses how much it troubles her that she’s not able to remember years of her life and how desperately she hopes for a future that holds love for her._

_When Bilbo unlocks the cell door several days later Niéle’s thick brown hair is free from leaves and twigs and the mess the forest made of it. It’s combed out as best as was possible with Dwalin’s thick fingers, with sections braided neatly and Dwalin’s bent one of his ear cuffs to secure it in one of the plaits._

~*~

 

This time around they leave Thranduil’s hospitality not in a wild barrel ride but through the front gate, with Elves smiling and waving their good-byes. At Bilbo that is, not at Dwalin, nor the rest of the dwarrow guards. But that’s alright. Compared to the interaction between dwarrow from Erebor and Elves from the Woodland Realm in the past their interactions this time was almost ... cordial. Dwalin actually has come to appreciate some aspects of the Elfking’s halls, like the good stonework he’s discovered in parts of the city, made by dwarrow centuries ago. He’s enjoyed a good spar or two with some of the Elfish guards and he thoroughly admired the open balconies high up in the city, that awarded an uninterrupted view over the green, endless sea of ancient trees. And the butterflies. He’s written to Niéle about the butterflies, describing in detail the thousands of colourful insects that filled the sky with their fluttery spectacle at every sunrise and sunset. He’s not told her about the kite butterflies the Elves have gifted him with, made from colourful fabrics, smooth and shining like silk, that will look pretty hanging from the ceiling in their sitting room. Nor of the butterfly-shaped hairpins he’s planned on crafting for her once he’s back in Erebor, the sketches for it secure in his pack.

Niéle’s last raven comes on the morning they leave. She tells of the workload she ‘applies herself to’ best she can and how she counts the days for him to be back. She names him ‘my light’ and ends her rather short letter with ‘hopefully it will be enough’ and Dwalin wonders briefly what she means by that. But then he’s distracted with getting his soldiers ready and the wagons, loaded with gifts and the first deliveries of goods under the new trading agreement between Erebor and the Woodland Realm.

The journey back goes without a hitch, and time seems to fly as is often the case with return journeys.

Bilbo is in a rather serene mood. He, too, has exchanged missives with Niéle - and Thorin - and is reassured and pleased that all is well in Erebor, despite his and Dwalin’s absence. They don’t speak much all the days of their way back, both content with the silence between them and their quiet joy of seeing home again. Their _outward_ quiet joy, because inside Dwalin’s stomach is curling with excited nerves at all times and he feels jittery and anxious with delight like a dwarfling before the Durin’s Day festivities. He cannot wait to see his Niéle again and hug her tight.

When their caravan makes their way past the Great Gates and into Erebor Dwalin scans the crowd for Niéle’s sweet face but he cannot see her.

Thorin is there though. Thorin, who briskly waves for soldiers to come forward and take the reins of Bilbo’s and Dwalin’s ponies and doesn’t wait for Dwalin to give orders for the wagons to be unloaded and to dismiss his soldiers. Thorin, who’s face is solemn. “It’s good you’re back,” he says instead, nodding at Glóin, who takes charge of Dwalin’s job. Dwalin doesn’t like to be set aside in such a way. And he doesn’t like the King’s tone; it’s both relieved and grave in an odd sort of way and all alarm bells begin ringing in Dwalin’s head.

With trepidation he notices that apart from Balin and Glóin none of the Company are present to welcome them back. Nor is Dís. “Where is everyone?” he asks, glancing over his brother’s bleak expression. “And where is Niéle?”

Thorin’s lips press together in a thin line. Dwalin’s trepidation is mounting to a feeling of terrible foreboding and true fear is now churning in his gut as the King avoids his and Bilbo’s eyes.

“Thorin?” Not surprisingly the hobbit picks up on the oddity of their reception, too.

Thorin doesn’t answer but waves his hand and gestures for them to follow him.

The hobbit exchanges a dark and concerned look with Dwalin. “Thorin, what is going on?” Bilbo asks as they rush after the King who picks a stiff pace as he leads them through the hallways.

Dwalin’s hand is on the handle of his axe and he’s gripping it so tight that his knuckledusters creek.

“Where is my Niéle?” he asks again and he notices he’s growling.

Still, Thorin says nothing, and when they enter the corridor that leads to the Healing Ward Dwalin’s legs break into a run before he even realizes it. “Niéle!” he yells and storms through the door, Bilbo at his heels.

Óin is there, looking grim. The healer points at a corner that has been sectioned off with screens and Dwalin sprints the rest of the way, his heart feels like it’s being squeezed by ice cold hands.

“No!” Bilbo breathes next to him at the sight that greets them. “Nonononononono!”

In an instant the hobbit is at the bed that holds a pale as death Niéle.

In fact, for a terrible, agonizingly long heartbeat Dwalin is sure that she _is_ dead. But then her eyes, her red-rimmed, wide open eyes move. Next he notices the binds that hold her hands, her arms and her legs in place and tie her down to the bed, making it unable for her to move.

“By Yavanna!” the hobbit exclaims disbelief and anger in his voice, “Why is she tied down! Thorin? Óin? Take these off, this instant!” He tugs at the fabric straps impatiently, in vain, his fingers shaking. “Thorin?” Bilbo nearly shouts. “Why? What has happened that warrants to tie her down?” When he turns and orders Dwalin to “Cut them off!” Dwalin is already there with his knife drawn.

“I would not recommend-“ Óin begins and steps forward but Dwalin only growls at him, and even the deaf and abrasive healer gets the message that the warrior is not to be trifled with just now. In no time at all Dwalin’s cut the straps and pulls the blanket off his Niéle’s body to check the state of her. She wears a thin shift but Dwalin sees no bandages, no injury.

Bilbo is leaning over her face, whispering her name, a hand on her cheek, peering into her open, unseeing eyes. “Niéle, my dear, everything is alright now. I am here. Dwalin is here. You are safe. I’ll set it right, I promise.” He moves Niéle’s limp arms to the front of her body and tugs at the sheet. He nods at Dwalin. “Take her,” he says, voice clipped, “Take off your armour and take her into your arms. Hold her, head on your chest, so she can hear your heartbeat.” He takes the ends of the bed sheet and folds them over Niéle in swift, practiced moves, tucking her in tightly, swaddling her like a babe.

The hobbit hasn’t even finished speaking and Dwalin is already moving, undoing his belt and harness, dropping weapons and knuckledusters on the ground where he stands without care and ceremony. In no time he’s stripping off his armour and when he’s in just his tunic and pants he reaches for her, gently, carefully, moves an arm under her shoulders and one under her knees in that sheet-cocoon she’s in and lifts her into his chest. He arranges her head, as Bilbo tells him, to rest on his heart. Bilbo lifts the blanket Dwalin has tossed aside as well and wraps it around Niéle, tucking her legs and bare feet in some more.

Dwalin looks down at her, his heart racing. She’s limp in his arms, and completely lifeless, but she’s warm. Her hair is in a messy braid, her lips are dry and cracked, and her brown eyes are open, wide open, staring into nothing, but moving, as if they are following something only she can see.

“What’s wrong with her?” Dwalin asks in a whisper, afraid of Bilbo’s answer. Years, the hobbit had said - was that really just a few days ago? - it had taken years for her to come out of her mind and be a part of the living.

_Surely not?_ Surely it wasn’t that.

Bilbo doesn’t confirm that it’s _not_ that though, and Dwalin is afraid. The hobbit pats his hand. “She’ll be alright. She has you. She’s had me last time, and I’m still here. And now she has you as well. She’ll be alright.” He straightens and turns to face Thorin and Óin, who still stand to the side of the bed. Óin doesn’t look pleased that his patient has been moved about without his permission, but he doesn’t say anything and Dwalin thinks it’s a wise decision. There is no reason whatsoever Dwalin could think of that would warrant to restrain a slip of a thing like his Niéle to the bed. Thorin looks thoroughly remorseful, but he avoids Bilbo’s eyes and in the back of his head Dwalin knows he is glad he’s not in his King’s shoes right now.

“I would have you explain to me what happened,” the hobbit asks in a voice so icy it makes the Stiffbeard’s frosty home look like a desert oasis. As Thorin opens his mouth to speak Bilbo lifts his hand to stop him. “Not here,” he commands and marches from the room, every fiber of his being making it very clear that he expects them to follow this instant.

Dwalin remains behind with Niéle. “What happened to you, my snowdrop? How could you fall back into the darkness?” He clutches her to his chest and leans down to press soft kisses on her forehead, her cheek, a brush of lips on her nose and her slightly opened berry-red mouth. “I love you, my jewel, Amrâlimê. Whatever happened, I am here now, and Bilbo. We’ll take care of everything. You’re safe now. Come back to us, my Niéle, come back to me.” Feeling overwhelmed he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before he looks down on her again, her gaze still staring unseeing at things not in this world.

Fate is cruel.

Dwalin knows this, has seen it often, but surely - _please Mahal_ \- it could not be so now. Now, that Dwalin is in love and has, for the first time in nearly a century allowed himself to dream of a happy future.

_Please Mahal_ , Dwalin prays as he fights against the panic that threatens to overcome him. _Please, dear Lady Yavanna, please bestow your blessings upon my sweet Ni_ _é_ _le. Do not let her suffer any more. Spare her, I beg you, and let us be happy together._


	4. Chapter 4

Bilbo’s raised voice drifts in from down the hall. “... am gone for a few weeks and this is what I find? What has happened to Niéle to get her into such a state?”

“Bilbo, please calm down-“

“Don’t you Bilbo calm down me, Thorin! That young woman may not be related to me by blood but I as good as raised her and I consider her my closest family. I can think of absolutely no reason why she would be fine when I leave her here, in the care of the Company, the care of _my Betrothed_ , the care of people I trust with my life, only to find her bedridden and unresponsive upon my return. Yet it appears that my trust has been much misplaced as it is precisely what has happened. Now, an explanation, if you please.”

Dwalin can almost see Bilbo standing with his hands on his hips and his foot tapping impatiently. He doesn’t blame the hobbit. He would like to hear that explanation, too, yes indeed.

It appears a few more people have arrived because he hears numerous mumbles at Bilbo’s declaration of finding his trust misplaced.

“I thought it best to - while you and Dwalin are away - take over your ward’s education.” Dís. “For that is what she is, no? Your ward?”

A moment’s silence. Then Bilbo, very firmly: “A ward would imply she is either not of age or mentally incapacitated and therefore not able to take care of her affairs on her own. As she is neither I will assume - for your benefit - that you simply chose the wrong word.”

“I-“

“If you insist in throwing around legal terms however I will gladly inform you that I have formally adopted Niéle many years ago. As she is not a hobbit and even as my adopted daughter cannot inherit my estate I have also lodged official paperwork with the Thain of the Shire, promulgating that the heirs of my estate, which are my cousins Primula and Drogo Baggins, will have to give living rights to Niéle until the end of her days. As they know and are equally fond of each other it was but a formality, but it settles Niéle’s status in the Shire. It does mean something to be a Baggins, and a resident of Bag End. As I have always hoped, and still do, that one day we find her real parents I have not told her that I have adopted her, and really, it is totally irrelevant right now ... What do you mean by ‘taking over her education’?” Bilbo’s factual tone becomes decidedly snarky at the end.

Dwalin wants to hear what Dís means, too, and slowly makes his way through the large room, past the multiple empty sick beds and to Óin’s office at the other end, where, as he has expected, are the rest of the Company. Letting his gaze travel over their faces all he sees is remorse and worry, confusion and hurt, uncertainty and concern. Bifur looks thoroughly shaken and Glóin’s eyes are suspiciously shiny, and Fíli and Kíli look terribly torn between their formidable Amad and their own opinions. For a moment his eyes linger on Balin’s face. His Nadad, with a mind so sturdy and hardened and politically savvy, looks stricken and averts his eyes to the floor shamefully after they flicker over the limp and unresponsive Niéle in Dwalin’s arms.

_Nadad, what have you done?_

Dís exhales long and slow before answering. “I disagree with it being irrelevant to know how a hobbit came to take in a Daughter of Men, or how this Daughter of Men is visibly not as other Daughters of Men. I mean, Niéle is tiny. As for the rest: You know full well that is not proper to have an unmarried couple living together the way Dwalin and Niéle are. They share a bed like only married spouses should.” She huffs. “And while Niéle is agreeable enough I have come to realize that she is ... not truly a suitable choice for one of the line of Durin. As have many others, unfortunately.”

Dwalin feels anger surge through him at the princess’ words, and Bilbo sucks in a sharp breath, nearly bristling with anger and annoyance, very much reminding Dwalin of one of those porcupine creatures he’s seen in the East a long time ago.

He’s about to retort hotly to Dís but snaps his mouth shut when Bilbo steps right up to the royal dam, lifting a finger into her face threateningly. “You best be careful now with what words you chose to describe my daughter. And what do you mean by ‘others’? Who else has issues with Niéle?” The hobbit whirls around and glares at the dwarves in the room. “Any of you?”

The Company shake their heads almost as one and Dwalin is relieved, even though their unison means nothing as long as Niéle is in the state she’s in.

Thorin though, Thorin does not shake his head and when he meets Dwalin’s eyes the warrior can read as clear as day that Thorin does share Dís’ sentiment.

That hurts.

It hurts more than when Thorin dismissed his council while he was still caught in madness, and threatened to kill him in the throne room just before the battle. Dwalin is sure that Thorin hasn’t exchanged more than two words with Niéle since she left Bag End with them to help reclaim their home. He has no right to form an opinion about her. Dwalin feels his expression harden, and sends a steely, withering glare at his _friend_. It gives him an almost savage satisfaction to see Thorin flinch heavily around the eyes, getting the message.

Luckily for Thorin Bilbo has missed the optic exchange between his Betrothed and future son-in-law, and turns back to Dís, firmly holding her gaze, clearly expecting an explanation from her. She presses her lips together and narrows her eyes at him before setting her chin. “I have taken it upon myself to introduce her to the circle of noble families that run this mountain. The wives, sisters, daughters and cousins of those that are on the King’s Council.”

Dwalin snorts. The vultures! Dwalin despises them. None of them has shared in the Durin’s struggles to provide for their people, to find them a home. None of them has shared even one coin of their wealth to support Thorin’s quest. And certainly none of them would have cried even one tear had they all perished in the process. Those most noble dwarrow would not approve of anyone that is not related to them, hoping to secure their daughters and cousins a place at the side of one of the Durins, now that the mountain has been reclaimed and they were both famous and rich beyond measure.

Dís glares at him and he glares right back. “Really, I was doing you a favour since you are obviously determined to marry, throwing my whole weight behind her. When it became abundantly clear that she knows less than most dwarflings I decided to cram as many lessons about our history, social customs and political intricacies into the weeks you were away as possible. A dwarrowdam’s Makabu Thurûkhu Abkân lasts four months, and they don’t have to learn half as much as Niéle does-“

Dwalin can’t believe his ears. “You locked her up?” Bilbo’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “You locked my Niéle into our rooms?” He realizes he’s shouting and apologetically ghosts a kiss on Niéle’s forehead, even though she gives no indication she’s registered his outburst.

“Well, that is how Makabu Thurûkhu Abkân works, Dwalin, in case you have forgo-“

“Niéle does not do well with being locked up,” Bilbo interrupts firmly, ignoring Dís’ sarcastic tone. Of course Bilbo is familiar with the Khazâd customs concerning marriage; the reason why Thorin declared him Royal Consort _before_ they are officially married: so Bilbo can cite his numerous duties and won’t have to undertake the four month long confinement that is meant to educate a lower ranked future spouse on the meaning of marriage someone that is on a higher step within the Khazâd social order. “Which you would have known had you bothered to consult with me - something I’m pretty sure you would have to do, considering I am her only male relative. Seeing how concerned you are about propriety I’m finding your lack of respect for mine and Niéle’s rights rather outrageous and quite insulting.” Bilbo glares.

The words hang heavy in the air.

Insult is a major matter in Khazâd society, one that can have grave ramifications for whole families and a large number of laws are dedicated to the dealings of it. And indeed, having gone over Bilbo as Niéle’s spokesperson is as blatant an insult as it can be. The hobbit is right to take umbrage.

Fíli and Kíli are decidedly uncomfortable and Thorin looks as if he just got whacked over the head. Dwalin wonders if he has truly been naive enough to give in to Dís on that matter without thinking of the consequences. Likely yes. Thorin ever took the easy way out when it comes to dealing with his sister. Or had he simply thought his hobbit would agree, seeing that the King considers his Betrothed's daughter ill-suited to play a part in the line of Durin?

“The Council will not look favourably on a Durin marrying a Daughter of Men,” Dís now says harshly, eyes blazing at Bilbo’s criticism even though she imperiously waves a hand. “It’s enough that the King takes a hobbit for his Consort, but at least he’s male and we won’t have to worry about offspring. My sons will be under the same scrutiny with their choice of bride when the time comes.” As Dís breezes through the plans for their further Dwalin notices both Fíli and Kíli pale considerably at that prospect. “But for now everyone will focus on Niele. The first bond for the line of Durin since my marriage to Víli. It is a big occasion. The Council will demand Niéle behave like a dam. So that any children she and Dwalin might have are guaranteed to be raised as dwarrow, with the virtuous values and high principles of our race-“

“Now this is just charming,” Bilbo mutters, his face sour, as Thorin winces at his sister’s phrasing and both heirs look highly apprehensive.

“In all my years I have not found a dam I wanted as my wife,” Dwalin interrupts with a growl, doing his best to keep it low, mindful of the limp body in his arms, “If not for Niéle I’d likely remain bound to my craft and my duty. The Council would not have to worry about offspring then at all. My Niéle is the only one I willingly, and gladly, will bind myself to. Dams never gave a feck about me before now and I don’t give a feck about their opinions about me now either. My Niéle is perfect to me just the way she is, dam or not. And if the Valar grace us with children we will raise them to be good people above all. They will know customs of Men and of Khazâd and will enjoy the ways of hobbits just the same - and I don’t see what would be wrong with that. I’m quite happy to convey all this to the noble Lords and Ladies of the Council myself, and if my words are not enough I’ll let my axes do the speaking. To dishonour my choice would mean to dishonour me, and I’ll not take kindly to that. Besides, since you insist on the legality of things: Niéle is a member of the Company, she’s family to the Hero of Erebor, who will be legally a dwarf once he marries the King. I’m not the law buff in the family, but I reckon that will also make her legally a dwarrowdam.”

All eyes swivel to Balin, who straightens his back and nods slowly. “It’s true, what my brother says is correct - as I have tried to explain to you as well-“ He breaks off as Dís interrupts him with an impatient wave of her hand.

“I did nothing but had her undergo a number of lessons each day,” she says, sounding annoyed but not at all regretful, which Dwalin finds highly irritating. “She never said a word about being uncomfortable or bothered by her confinement. Balin saw her every day, he can vouch for that.”

The Royal Advisor finds himself with all eyes on his person again. “She did her best to keep up with the learning,” he responds carefully, and it is clear he dislikes being put on the spot like that. “I know she did not enjoy it, and she did struggle with the sheer volume of it all, but every time I asked her if she was alright she said yes.”

“Of course she did!” Dwalin bellows, feeling utterly betrayed by his own brother. “If you expected her to say anything different than you are an utter fool, Nadad.”

“She said nothing to the boys either,” Dís cut in harshly, “And they’ve sat with her every day for lunch.”

Again Dwalin snorts, making it clear he’s not surprised.

“But we’re her friends,” Kili objects in a small voice, sounding very unsure despite his words, “She can talk to us. Why couldn’t she just tell us that it’s all too much and we would have-“

“Would have what?” Dwalin demands to know, “Told your Amad to leave Niéle alone?” He exhales harshly. “Please! We all know that will never happen. Dís is like a dog with a bone when she sets her mind on something, and in all her years nobody has ever gotten in her way, just to keep the peace of it.” Dwalin is incensed and breathes deeply to calm down, shifting the weight in his arms slightly. She’s too light, his Niéle, what little weight she’s gained since the quest all but gone. “And Niéle would not speak up because Dís put in her head that she needs to turn herself into a noble dwarrowdam to be good enough for me,” Dwalin adds hoarsely, much quieter now as he realizes that it’s because of him Niéle is in this state. “She loves me dearly and she was ready to bend herself hard to achieve exactly that. Only, she bent herself so hard it nearly broke her.”

“The spouse of a Durin has to be able to do more with her life than making buttons. Niéle barely knows her letters.“ Dís barks and Fíli looks truly troubled now. Dwalin remembers what Bilbo told him about the heir’s feelings for the Princess of Dale, who hasn’t been a princess a year ago but a fisherman’s daughter, who definitely would be lacking the noble education Dís seemed to expect for any female marrying into the line of Durin.

“Niéle’s buttons embellish the clothes of the King of Rohan,” Bilbo informs the royal dam tartly, “And while I was with King Thranduil a missive from Lord Elrond of Rivendell arrived for me, asking me to pass his thanks to Niéle for her once more generous contribution to the outfits of the Ranger’s clothes. She has made their buttons and toggles these past eight years. Many of her creations have also accompanied departing Elves on their way across the sea. Not many can say their work has reached the shores of the Undying Lands.”

“Khazâd do not see that as great praise,” Dís snarls, “But I suppose it is to be expected that you do, with your love for the weed-eaters and since your daughter even has an Elfish name! If she wasn’t so tiny I’d ask if she shares even more with those Mebelkhâgs.”

Kíli sucks in a breath, tensing in his place next to Fíli, and the brother’s share a dark and troubled look, very obviously taken aback by their Amad’s insulting behaviour. Dwalin is not fond of Elves, for obvious reasons, even though the battle and the visit in the Woodland Realm has softened his stance considerably, but for the first time he sees why Bilbo always reacts with helpless frustration at Thorin’s stubborn condemnation of the Elder Race. Times have changed, and Khazâd would have to change with them or be left behind.

“I am well aware that I’m far from perfect by the standards of your peoples,” the hobbit says tersely, pressing the words through his teeth, “But at least I can claim I have not antagonized another race to the point of armed hostility, something neither dwarrow nor Elves are unable to do, and Men for that matter. Which is, at the current state of affairs in the region, quite a good thing. It’s certainly something Erebor readily makes use of.”

The hobbit’s fists are balled and Dwalin wouldn’t be surprised if steam would be coming out of Bilbo’s ears from the boiling ire he’s clearly feeling. Thorin’s lips are in a thin line and he holds himself straight and stiff, his eyes hanging on Bilbo with a pained expression. It obviously begins to dawn on the King that his sister may irrevocably damage his relationship with the hobbit with her offensive comments. 

“Be that as it may,” Dís huffs, breezing through all the points of her indignation, “Niéle is lacking in many regards. She’s curiously frail and easily bothered by the most mundane things. To complete lose all composure and throw herself into a fit of epic proportions at a simple fitting! First thrashing about and then running away ... it is undignified ... and highly unbecoming for someone who imagines herself soon to be living in a position of prestige.” Dís speaks callously, her irritation outweighing her guilty conscience.

Dwalin can’t believe what he’s hearing and lets out a breath he’s been holding to contain his temper. He closes his eyes for a moment before leaning down to kiss his Niéle’s forehead. _Oh, my snowdrop, what have they done to you?_

“And what fitting might that have been?” Bilbo asks tartly with forced calm.

Dís straightens herself. “I have taken the liberty to commission a few official dresses as well as her wedding gown-“

“Liberty indeed,” Bilbo mutters and shakes his head in disbelief. “You are very presumptuous in thinking Niéle’s wedding dress is not already in the making. She and I have been working on it for months, as it is custom in the Shire, and indeed amongst Men; something she would do with her mother if she had one. As it’s only me and her I have given her most of what was in my mother’s glory box. Niéle is well outfitted for her wedding.”

Dís snorts and rolls her eyes; it is clear what she thinks of hobbit clothing, not that she knows anything about it beyond what she’s seen on Niéle these past months, which is _hobbit style_ at best, what with considerable longer skirts and sensible boots.

Dwalin realizes he’s shaking now from anger, his self-control slipping. Another word from the princess and he’ll likely be most thoroughly losing his temper, whether his Niéle is in his arms or not.

Bilbo is angry, too, angrier than he has ever seen him. And he, too, has interpreted Dís’ snort for what it is. In response the hobbit steps right up to the princess, and with him glaring up and her down they are nearly nose to nose. “It is lucky for you that I have come to know Khazâd as generous, warmhearted, honest and loyal. Because right now you are displaying all the character trades that are said to be your entire race is famous for: pigheaded stubbornness, willful pride and imperious arrogance-“

Dwalin is full of admiration for the hobbit. He has often shown that underneath all his manners and gentlehobbit behaviour his heart is a fierce and feisty one. But to meet the leading dam of Durin’s line head-on is another matter entirely. Aye, Bilbo is a brave soul, ready to defend one he calls his closest family by yelling right into the face of Durin’s princess.

Who is not used to be spoken to thusly.

Dís’ eyes narrow and her hand edges to the knife on her waist.

Dwalin tenses, so does everyone else in the room. Both Fíli and Kíli are as taught as bow strings and edge closer, ready to physically interfere. _Durin’s beard!_

“Enough!” Thorin’s voice is like thunder. It breaks the tension and Dís relaxes minutely, shock and disbelief ghosting over her face, her hand dropping loosely by her side.

Bilbo steps back, smoothing his waistcoat with trembling fingers. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “Even the most beautiful wildflowers are considered weeds in the wrong garden,” he says softly and turns to look at Niéle. Her eyes are still wide open and darting around unseeing, red-rimmed and sore looking from not closing to rest for a long time. Bilbo lifts a hand and gently brushes an errant strand of hair from her forehead. He straightens and moves to the door. “Come, Dwalin, take her to my rooms. I’ll set some broth to boil and get a balsam for her lips. It’s lucky I brought some herbs from Thranduil’s healers. They’ll help Niéle’s eyes.”

Dwalin doesn’t tarry but follows the hobbit as he walks from the room without a glance back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever all Khuzdul from the website of the dwarrowscholar and how I wrangled words to make them fit my story :)
> 
> Makabu Thurûkhu Abkân - Study of (the) Ways of Marriage  
> Khazâd - how dwarrow call themselves  
> Mebelkhâgs - Elves (impolite)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The small, select group of people who love Dwalin stories and keeps following this and leaving kudos and comments: you are awesome :)

They don’t speak as they walk to Bilbo’s rooms. Once the doors fall shut behind them Bilbo deflates momentarily with a sigh, his shoulders slumping. He rubs a hand over his forehead. “Of all the ...” He shakes his head. “What a thoroughly infuriating, terrible situation.” He takes a deep breath and straightens himself, turning his focus on Dwalin. “Will you be alright holding her for a while? Until I get things ready?”

“I’ll hold her for eternity, if I must,” Dwalin assures him and Bilbo smiles.

“Of course you will.” The hobbit pats Dwalin’s arm. “Then go, take a seat wherever you’re most comfortable. I’ll be with you shortly.”

Dwalin settles on the couch with a sigh, arranging Niéle over his lap in such a way that her feet rest on the pillows and don’t dangle in the air. He keeps her head against his chest and tries to regulate his breathing to keep his heartbeat slow and steady.

When Bilbo comes back his first action is to undo Niéle’s thick braid. “She’s not fond of them,” he says by way of explanation. Dwalin knows this. While Niéle doesn’t mind if he puts some braids in her hair she’s always asked to leave the bulk of it hanging free. Dwalin quite likes her wild, untamed mane and has gotten well used to running his fingers through it.

The hobbit is just about to focus his attention on the fireplace when there’s a knock at the door.

They exchange a look.

Bilbo frowns. “This better be good,” he says and stomps off.

It’s Óin. They exchange a few words, Dwalin cannot quite hear what is being said but a moment later the healer enters the room. He bows deeply when he’s before Dwalin. “I beg for your forgiveness, ‘Ushkat,” he says with a shaky voice and Dwalin does not like to see the old dwarf so rattled. “I’ve not liked it, not one bit of it, and I’ve been in over my head.” He swallows heavily and wrings his hands. “Your Niéle ... she’s been thrashing so badly and did not suffer anyone to hold her. Not Glóin, nor the lads, not Bifur either. I was at my wits end. She’s been doing herself harm, falling off the bed and hitting her head. I had to tie her down. I am so sorry. It’s not right, I know, and I’ve loathed doing it. The whole situation is a mess, has been a mess all throughout. We’re guilty, all of us, for not having stepped up in Niéle’s defense, but especially me and my brother. We’re your kin, Dwalin, and we like your Niéle. She’s good and decent and we gladly see her in our family. We were weak in Dís’ aim to change her ways and I am so sorry. I beg you to let me stay here, to help see her better. To learn what to do to avoid it ever happening again.” Óin’s father and Dwalin’s were brothers, which makes them closer family than Dwalin is with Thorin and Dís, and Óin has stitched him up more times than he cares to remember. And now he’s in tears. It’s too much.

“Kharm,” Dwalin rumbles, lifting a beefy hand to halt the desperate rambles. “It is well. I know you care. If Bilbo has no objection I have no issues with you helping us tend to Niéle.”

Bilbo does not have objection and after Óin’s lit the fireplace to get the room warm he and Bilbo disappear in the hobbit’s kitchen, leaving Dwalin on the couch with Niéle.

Stretching carefully as to not jostle her, Dwalin rolls his shoulders and turns his head until he feels the bones in his neck crack.

He looks down on the still figure with a heavy heart. She’s so small and delicate in his arms, his Niéle, something he’s immediately cherished because it made her wonderfully different from the body shape of any dam he’s ever known.

It is something new. Something unexpected and ... preciously invigorating, in his old, harsh life.

Altogether Niéle has introduced a lot of new things into Dwalin’s life. Without Niéle he would never know about buttons or flower language, nor about lace making and the [sixteen ways of cooking eggs](https://www.buzzfeed.com/marietelling/unexpected-ways-to-cook-eggs).

Before Niéle Dwalin didn’t much care for strolls through the markets and certainly never just sat on a bench to the side of the Great Entrance Hall to watch people go about their business either. He would never have tried weaving flower crowns nor eaten herby salads.

Without Niéle he also wouldn’t know what it’s like to be holding someone all night, while they slept peacefully. He wouldn’t know what it feels like to have his hair brushed nor anything about the sensation of gentle kisses on his bald head.

Every day with Niéle has brought something new to his life, something that gives him a reason to smile and be grateful.

And the best part is that Niéle wants nothing in return. She cares not about being seen at his arm or whether others gush over the dress she wears. She wants no jewels, nor gold or silver. Niéle genuinely enjoys Dwalin’s company. They are plenty intimate, in a physical way, and Dwalin wouldn’t want to be without that ever again, but he loves the other kind of intimacy as well, the one that lets him see someone else so obviously happy just to be around him. It is completely new territory for him and it is as exciting as it is terrifying.

Pots and pans clatter and Bilbo’s voice drifts in from the kitchen. “... does not do well in locked spaces. It does not matter if it’s a broom cupboard or a massive hall, as soon as she knows her movement is restricted it sets something in her on edge. It was never an issue in the Shire as all our doors are always unlocked, nor during the quest, apart from Thranduil’s dungeon where she didn’t fare well at all, but Dwalin managed to get her through it.”

Dwalin can’t make out Óin’s response but Bilbo’s is easy to hear. “I’ve never been able to figure it out. As far as I can tell there seems to be no rule and I cannot tell you why she tolerates some more than others. Half of the Shire has not been able to even hold her hand without her going still and withdrawn. Some send her into immediate fits. With me, it never was an issue, not with Dwalin either, as much of a surprise that was initially - he was the first dwarf she’s ever seen after all. And Niéle is fine with the lads, with Glóin and with Bifur, but I have no explanation.”

When they come back into the room Bilbo carries a tray with small cups with spouts that contain some herbal brew and a deliciously smelling broth, as well as a glass jar and a bowl with steaming hot water. He adds dried leaves and flowers from a satchel and lets them steep.

Dwalin arranges Niéle into a more sitting position and Bilbo manages to coax both the tea and the broth down her throat, although it is a slow and tedious process. Óin is intrigued about the spouty cups and Bilbo gladly launches into a explanation about how their were suggested to him by a Ranger with healing knowledge, whom he conversed with via letters after he took over Niéle’s care.

“How long’s she been like this before?” Óin wants to know.

“Two years, my friend,” Bilbo says with a sigh and dabs at Niéle’s lips with a napkin. “Two long years. I knew nothing of her illness then and I had nobody to ask. Everything I learned was figured out day by day, one success or one fail after the other.”

Óin looks crestfallen and Bilbo pats his hand. “I honestly don’t think it’ll be that long this time. She loves Dwalin too much.” Dwalin gulps and the hobbit smiles up at him. “I know that part of her is aware of what’s going on around her and she’ll want to come back to you sooner rather than later, I’m sure of it.”

A balm that smells like honey is dabbed onto her cracked lips and Bilbo briefly soaks a clean cloth in the steaming water before squeezing it out, folding it and brushing it over Niéle’s forehead and eyebrows. Her lids flutter and with some gentle pressure her eyes close. Bilbo leaves the cloth over her eyes and nods, pleased. “Good, very good. Whatever she sees while in that state I believe she doesn’t see it while her eyes are closed, which overall makes her far more relaxed.” The hobbit gets to his feet. “We pretty much continue the same way every few hours until she wakes.“

And so it is.

Bilbo’s care regime is strict and Dwalin is glad that Óin assists him. It’s hard to fathom the strain Bilbo would have been under, tending to Niéle’s needs on his own in the Shire.

After first breakfast Niéle gets a bath, something Bilbo leaves solely to Dwalin who has no trouble lifting her unresisting body around. Next Dwalin takes care of her hair, combing it dry and brushing it until it shines and redoing her few braids, while Bilbo prepares Second Breakfast. Dwalin has no intention of leaving Niéle just yet, not even for a moment, so Bilbo takes the opportunity to slip out and see to some of his duties.

“The mountain won’t crumble because you’re taking care of personal affairs for a few days,” Dwalin tells him, seeing well that the hobbit hesitates leaving his rooms and risking running into the various members of the Company, possibly Dís, and certainly Thorin.

But the hobbit straightens his spine and gives him a stern look. “I am a Baggins, thank you very much, and we do not shy away from our duties because of some ... some ... obstacles.” His eyes glint and he sounds so terribly proper that Dwalin can’t help the chuckle that escapes him. “You easily match any dwarrow’s stubbornness,” Dwalin teases and the hobbit glares before quirking a little rueful grin. “Yes, well, shows the bad influence you lot have on me.”

They agree that Niéle’s nights should be spent in bed, lying down, but her days in an upright position as much as possible. Dwalin sleeps with her pulled against his chest in Bilbo’s guest bedroom, which holds a respectable large bed that easily would fit a couple of Men. Bilbo’s shown Dwalin how to prop her up in the armchair or the on the couch for the day but Dwalin much prefers to hold her at all times. Óin comes and helps changing the sheets and towels and together they go over some exercises to keep Niéle’s joints smooth and her muscles from stiffening. Óin takes great care not to touch her but when he eventually takes just her foot to demonstrate a certain move she immediately tenses, her breathing changes and she’s beginning to show signs of distress.

When she calms again as soon as Dwalin croons at her and smoothes her hair and kisses her hand Óin hangs his head in dismay. “It’s heartbreaking to see, cousin,” he confesses, “And well beyond my skill to heal. You have no knowledge of how she came to be this way?”

Dwalin hesitates. “I know some,” he admits after a while, “And I’ve guessed some more. But it’s not my story to tell. Certainly not without her permission.”

Óin nods in acceptance and Dwalin gently pulls some wayward strands of hair off her face. “It’s a dark tale, cousin, one that easily rivals our own terrors. If Dís would have cared to know-” He breaks off and bites his lip. Dwalin is still very, very angry with Dís, and likely would be for some time.

When an irritated Bilbo returns some hours later it’s with Fíli in tow. Óin’s busy with the lunch dishes while Dwalin sits on a chair in the kitchen, Niéle on his lap with her back against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder and her eyes wide open without the cloth on her face.

Fíli’s wearing an unusually serious expression; his youthful swagger all but gone.

“Bifur,” the hobbit grumbles, “has taken up position outside my quarters and has taken it upon himself to shoo everyone away who wishes to call upon me, or you for that matter. It appears he’s sent your brother away, Glóin, Kíli, Dori and even his own kin, Bofur and Bombur. Had I not come back just now to see Fíli slipping off we’d be none the wiser.”

Dwalin doesn’t move a muscle, watching the lad squirm under his stern gaze. “Plenty’s been said yesterday,” Dwalin rasps eventually, “though nothing I liked. And I’m not sure I’m up to hearing some more just yet. My attention is elsewhere.” He makes sure his tone is final before he lays a protective palm on Niéle’s folded hands on her stomach, tucked away in the swaddling cloth.

Bilbo purses his lips at Fíli apologetically but refrains from saying anything. The lad nods, not looking at all surprised at Dwalin’s words. “Aye, Binamradamrâb,” he says solemnly, “I understand, and I will not keep you long. Allow me to express my sorrow and my regret at how your Niéle’s been treated in your absence.” He addresses both Bilbo and Dwalin, but his eyes linger on Dwalin longer. “It is shameful to forget the bonds we formed on the quest so quickly, the bonds of friendship and of companionship. And besides being family, Ngshar, you are my mentor, my idol, a dwarf I hold in high esteem. Letting your Yasath come to harm while under our watch, harm caused by my Amad no less, shows a lack of integrity and honour that shames me deeply. Therefore,” Fíli kneels and before Dwalin can say anything or react in any way has pulled a knife from his belt and severs the braid hanging from his temple, offering it to Dwalin with a bow.

Bilbo gasps and Óin mutters. Dwalin sighs. The Mother’s braid. The braid showing Fíli is a son of a daughter of Durin. “Oh lad,” he mutters, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Fíli looks at him with frown. “I stood by while my Amad spoke of the woman you love with nothing but contempt and disrespect. She’ll say the same of Kíli’s love, because she’s not only not a dam but an Elf, no matter she’s saved his life on more than one occasion.” He hesitates. “And she’ll say the same of the one I love, because she’s not only _not_ a dam with a noble education but born a fisherman’s daughter, no matter she’s now a princess.” The heir speaks quietly, as if confessing a secret.

Dwalin sighs again, deeper. “You’ve not an easy road ahead of you, even with your Amad’s approval, lad, being the heir and all. Nor does your brother. But love is precious, and if one’s affections are returned it brings happiness, something many of our race have been without for too long. It should be embraced by all.” He takes the braid from Fíli’s hand. “I accept your apology, lad, and your sacrifice. Stand, Dashtul.” And when Fíli does he pulls him close by the scruff of his neck to hold their foreheads together for a moment. “Your Amad will be beside herself when she sees what you’ve done, for me, no less. Maybe it’s a good thing Bifur is outside your door, Bilbo,” he says to the hobbit, “For if she were to keep charging in here yelling some more and disturbing my Niéle’s peace I’d be getting very angry indeed.”

“I doubt it,” Fíli tells him, “She’s been very quiet since the big blowout yesterday. She almost pulled a weapon against the Royal Consort! It’s shaken her quite a bit that she’s nearly lost control. And Uncle’s berated her harshly. For that and the rest of it. Although,” the heir’s eyes dart to Bilbo, “I guess for him it’s also much the guilt talking.”

Bilbo once more purses his lips but again says nothing. The hobbit remains rather withdrawn for the rest of the afternoon, long after Óin’s left as well and dinner’s done and Niéle’s fed and taken care of.

“You sure you don’t want me to relief you for a bit?” the hobbit wants to know when he gets himself ready for bed.

“I’ll be fine, Bilbo,” Dwalin assures him. “Get some rest and take the time to think about what to say to Thorin. He’s an idiot, and has always bowed to his sister in family matters, but you know he loves you. He’s made a mistake, a grave one, they all have, and have failed us both cruelly, and Niéle.” He tucks the blanket in around her feet where she lies on her side in the bed, ready for the night. “But we can’t keep avoiding them forever.”

After Bilbo leaves Dwalin crawls under the cover next to Niéle and holds her tight. This close he can feel her heartbeat and with the sense of her hair under his hand and her scent in his nose he cannot help but think of Laketown, where they lay together in a bed like this for the first time, and how her heartbeat sped up when he leaned over her and kissed her deeply. 

How she had lowered her lashes and blushed, suddenly embarrassed, as if it hadn’t been her who came into his bed with nothing more than a nearly threadbare tunic, her skin rosy and her hair damp from the bath. They had spoken about it during the day, and he had sought Bilbo’s approval at least, even though Niéle already wore Dwalin’s bead and was the one making it _very clear_ she wanted all of him, with fierce determination and excitement in her eyes. Dwalin did not deny her, how could he? He was hers as she was his, and even if they did not know what the next day would bring that much at least was certain.

But Dwalin made sure every step of the way was at her pace and every one of his moves was about her and her only. It was not only the right thing to do but he also quite enjoyed exploring all of her, listening to her increasingly pleased little sighs and bell-like trills. Dwalin already knew by then that Niéle likes how large his hands are, and how strong his body is. That night he found out she likes how he uses his large, rough hands to soothe her silken skin when she squirms and quivers under his touch, that she likes it when he uses gentle pressure mixed with care in his caresses. His own skin tingled with arousal from head to toe as he watched his Niéle grow steadily more bolder and daring, until they both were breathless and gasping, convulsing in a desperate crescendo, muscles and limbs turning into a liquid mass in the aftermath of their peaks.

Dwalin tilts his head to reach Niéle’s lips, kissing her tenderly, careful not to disturb the cloth over her eyes. She tastes like honey now, thanks to Bilbo’s balm, and her lips are no longer dry and chapped but their usual lush berry-red.

Gauging her breathing Dwalin is relieved that it’s slow and steady. Bilbo had said that he’s sure Niéle has a sense of what is going on around her, and Dwalin believes it.

“I love you, my snowdrop. Come back to me. Don’t let the darkness win. You have seen enough of it, as have I. And Erebor has seen enough of it, too. Let us only have light in our lives from now on,” he whispers and carefully moves so he can rest her head on his bicep and bury his nose in her hair while he falls asleep with a hand on her belly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul from the Dwarrow Scholar   
> ‘Ushkat - greater/greatest kin  
> Kharm - kinsman  
> Binamradamrâb - important person/leader of integrity and honour  
> Ngshar - teacher (title of respect)  
> Yasath - bride  
> Dashtul - son-like


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go ...

There is no change the next day, apart from Bifur reporting he’s sent half the Company away from Bilbo’s door yet again, especially after they’ve seen Fíli without his braid, some of them rather emotional.

Dwalin knows he’ll not be able to avoid his brother - nor his duties - for too much longer and despite his disappointment with his Nadad in the whole affair a part of him feels bad to let the poor old dwarf simmer so.

Bilbo’s in a rather evasive mood, likely doing his best to avoid speaking to Thorin apart from the absolute necessary and only when it’s concerning affairs of the mountain. Dwalin can tell the hobbit is not sleeping well, his friendly disposition not liking the discord between him and his Betrothed. Why Thorin’s not on his knees outside Bilbo’s door Dwalin cannot tell - Dwalin would, in his position - but then again, the majestic idiot always was different and interpersonal matters never his strong suit. And he is a King, of course, and Kings are supposed to be strong and always right and certainly not prostrating themselves for anything and anyone. It’s not easy, being a King; Dwalin’s well aware and wouldn’t want to switch rolls for all the gems in the mountain.

Niéle is unchanged, but Dwalin _feels_ as if she’s better, her mind more at the surface, somehow. He can’t explain it, but trusts his instinct and the connection they share. His Niéle has ever been affectionate with him, always reaching for him to touch his hand or his shoulder, to stroke his arm or his face. She never hesitates to kiss him, not caring whether they are alone or in public and Dwalin’s always done his best to give as good as he got - not that it is hardship – no matter public shows of affection are not the dwarrow way. He maintains the same approach now, with Niéle being unresponsive, always touching her, speaking to her softly, stroking her hair and her hands, kissing her soft lips and her forehead.

It’s mid-morning on the third day when Bilbo comes in from seeing off Bard after they met briefly in the mountain to discuss a joint venture of rebuilding the docks of Laketown.

“It’s raining,” the hobbit tells him, shaking out his damp curls. His eyes glitter and he looks quite a bit livelier than earlier in the day. “Beautiful, gentle summer rain. The air smells of saturated, healthy earth and of rich fields and flowers in bloom and the promise of a good harvest. A vast difference from the desolation.” He smiles. “It’s always been Niéle’s favourite time of year in the Shire. I think we should take her outside.”

Dwalin does not object and so they grab a few extra blankets, take the swaddling off Niéle and pull a tunic over her shift instead. It’s easy to carry her through the mountain, even if there are some curious stares, and it doesn’t take long until they make their way past the Gate and into the fields just outside the Great Gate. Bilbo is right: it smells wonderful, the air is clean and fresh, and the rain is like the gentlest of showers. Dwalin shifts on his feet, breathing deeply, taking his fill of the pure, clear smell. He can’t help but smile at the sky, enjoying the feeling of the soft wetness on his skin; he may be a dwarf, but he has long come to appreciate life under the open sky. “Feel that, my Niéle?” He lifts her a bit; making sure her head is tilted up as well. Her eyes are far less red and sore than they have been but they are still wide open and strangely vacant, following images that are not in this world. Feeling a curious happiness in his heart despite that sad sight Dwalin does a few dance steps, just for fun, because why not? He knows his Niéle would be dancing across the meadow now, were she able. Bilbo laughs at the sight and Dwalin finds himself humming a tune.

Niéle sighs and lightly smacks her lips.

And Dwalin stumbles, nearly losing his footing. He stands, frozen, looking down on her; Bilbo is immediately rushing to his side.

Niéle moves.

She stretches a little and sighs again, before turning her body more into Dwalin’s, moving one small hand up his broad chest, past his beard and under his thick hair to the back of his neck, where her fingers stroke his skin idly. Her eyes flutter and close, and Dwalin’s heart grows impossibly large when they open again and she peeks up at him from under long eyelashes.

“My snowdrop,” he whispers, nearly overcome with emotion, “It is so good to see your beautiful eyes looking at me.” He leans down to tenderly kiss her berry-red lips.

She sighs again. “Bilbo,” she mumbles, weak and sluggish from all the days trapped in her mind.

“I am here, Niéle,” the hobbit says and comes closer, carefully touching her arm, relief and joy clear in his face. Dwalin shares a happy smile with him. 

She smiles, too, a sweet, terribly missed sight, Dwalin realizes.

She sighs again, contently, and snuggles into Dwalin, closing her eyes.

She falls asleep.

Niéle sleeps the rest of the day and only wakes briefly in the evening, to take some broth and tea and nibble on berries Bilbo brings in; from Bombur apparently, left with his unrelenting cousin outside Bilbo’s door. She sleeps again all night, pressed against Dwalin’s front, one hand in his beard, the other in his large palm.

While she breaks her fast in the morning it is clear she’s exhausted and in a curious state of lethargic drowsiness.

“It’s to be expected,” Bilbo assures Dwalin, “Her mind’s likely been running in circles ever since her breakdown and she still needs to recover from it.”

Dwalin can see that his Niéle’s back though. In the short moments she’s awake her warm brown eyes look at him with infinite awe, utter trust and unbroken openness. When he tries to beg her forgiveness for somehow having made her think, even for a second, that she had to be more of a dam to be good for his wife she shushes him. "I _wanted_ to learn all of that," she says, clasping his face with her small hands, "I wanted to. I thought I'd be strong enough. But I forgot ... And that is a good thing. You've made me forget ... all the ... you-" She breaks off, shaking her head, frustrated at her inability to find the right words. It has Dwalin’s blood rushing through his body and into his heart with the force of a wild torrent. _Mahal!_ Aye, it is a good thing, that she forgets about the past and is completely in the present when she's with him. It is what he aims to achieve, every day, has done, since he begun to understand the depth of her strange edges in the dungeons. They hold each other silently and he simply tells her all the things he loves about her, and it takes quite a while. She listens, in rapture, and when her eyes sparkle warmly and she relaxes Dwalin hopes he'll manage for the rest of her life to keep her in this state of happiness.

She eats and drinks small morsels every couple of hours and is able to stand for short periods of time, tending to her own needs, but any exertion leaves her worn out, trembling and falling asleep the moment her head’s touching the pillow.

At one such moment where she sleeps again after a small bowl of porridge with spices and bits of fresh fruit Dwalin leaves her in Bilbo’s care and makes his way to his own rooms. He knows he can no longer avoid his brother, and he also wants to make some preparations for the wedding, which he’s determined to hold as soon as Niéle is thoroughly on her feet once more.

Bifur is still outside Bilbo’s door. The old warrior had broken down with relieved tears when Dwalin had carried Niéle back after she regained herself in the rain. Bifur’s previously dour mood has softened somewhat since then, but his determination has not. Now he salutes him with his boar spear. “Binamradamrâb, none shall cross the threshold while you’re away.”

For once Dwalin doesn’t mind the stubbornness. It would not do that any come calling now while he’s not by his Niéle’s side. “I’m meaning to see to a few matters,” he explains, “And also to speak to my Nadad. Should he come here make sure to let him know to seek me.”

And indeed, Dwalin has just left his office, pleased and grateful to see that Glóin and Fíli have taken over his duties without a hitch, and makes his way towards the treasury when his brother walks towards him, shoulders hunched and face pale. Dwalin is heavyhearted to see his Nadad so tired, miserable and dispirited. Balin grasps his arm as soon as they’re close enough. “Please, Naddith,” he chokes, “Please, don’t shun me any longer.” Tears glitter in his eyes and Dwalin can feel him shaking. It fills him with sorrow and regret, and what little anger he still nurses dissipates like snow in the spring sun.

They make their way to Balin’s rooms in silence. As soon as the door falls shut behind them Balin is thoroughly overcome with tears. Dwalin’s heart aches at the sight and it takes some time for the both of them to get a grip on themselves while they clasp at each other, their foreheads pressed together. Dwalin accepts his Nadad’s apology, but he won’t accept anything else, certainly not Balin’s long, white beard.

“But I’ve let you down, Naddith, I’ve let you down so badly. You and Niéle.” The old dwarf wipes a tired hand over his face.

Dwalin waves him off. “It’s in the past now. What I want is to look to the future. My Niéle’s woken. She’ll be on her feet again real soon. And I want things to be ready then.”

Balin’s face at the good news is a picture of honest relief. “Oh, I am so glad, Naddith.”

Dwalin hugs him again. “So am I. So am I.”

“I should never have listened to Dís-“

“Dís only focused on the things that are wrong with my Niéle,” Dwalin says with sudden clarity, “Instead of thoroughly embracing what’s right about her. And Niéle has explained to me that she was willing, forgetting the dangers of her troubles in the happiness she's felt of late. I am still angry with Dis, for she acted dishonourable and callous. And all the things she said ..." Dwalin shakes his head. "But I feel blame for Niéle’s breakdown lies at the feet of many, and I cannot exclude myself.”

Balin nods, solemnly. “Aye,” his astute old eyes take in Dwalin’s face. “She’s good for you, your Niéle. You are happier than you’ve ever been. Calmer, appreciating the little things. She’s made you wiser, too.” Balin makes a wry grimace. “And I am an old fool.”

“Old you are, aye,” Dwalin chuckles, “but fool you’re not. You just got browbeat by Dís. I can’t even say that you’ve simply forgotten what it’s like because we both know you’ve not really ever been on the receiving end of her determination. Neither have I. At least not ever when it came to something that truly mattered.” He leads his Nadad to the table. “While I’m still tending to my Niéle there is something I’d ask of you,” he says and pulls out the sketches he’s made in the Woodland Realm.

Balin’s eyes light up at the design and soon they are absorbed discussing the finer details of the materials needed to craft Niéle’s butterfly hairpins. When Balin rushes off towards the treasury he’s a dwarf on a mission and Dwalin is glad they’re relationship is a good one, and that they’re close enough to reconcile relatively easy.

He knows it’s not going to be that way for him and Dís.

He’s not sure it’s going to be that way for him and Thorin.

He hopes it’s going to be that way for Bilbo and Thorin.

The hobbit is still very quiet when Dwalin returns to Bilbo’s apartment, a book forgotten in his lap as he stares into the fire, Niéle sleeping on the couch, her long, brown hair spilling over the edge of the seat as she breathes deeply in her slumber.

“Bilbo,” he rumbles as quietly as he can, startling the hobbit. Dwalin shakes his head with a sigh, gently brushing over Niéle’s forehead with his thick fingers. “Bilbo, you must seek the conversation with Thorin. For your own sake.”

Bilbo crunches up his nose but says nothing. Dwalin carefully sits on the couch, lifting Niéle’s feet and depositing them in his lap.

The hobbit’s voice is quiet when he speaks. “You know he’s not come to try and see me. Bifur said. Not once. What am I to think of that? Does he not regret what happened?”

“Oh, he regrets it,” Dwalin assures him, “But he’s a sodding blockhead and doesn’t know how to apologize. And don’t forget ...” he gives the hobbit a pointed look, “He’s had to apologize to you not too long ago. Profusely. I know him. In his head he still thinks he’s not good enough for you.” Dwalin ignores Bilbo’s incredulous snort. “You’ve forgiven him for something any dwarf would have great trouble forgiving, if it could ever happen. And now he’s let you down again. How can you trust him? How can you forgive him again? In Thorin’s head you’d be mad to do so.”

Bilbo sighs. Then. “He _is_ a sodding blockhead.”

Dwalin chuckles, gently smoothing the blanket around Niéle’s feet. “Aye, that he is. But it eats at you. At you both. You both must know where you stand. Unless-“ The dark thought only now occurs to Dwalin. “Unless you’re no longer interested in a relationship with him, and wish to break your bond.”

But to his relief Bilbo waves his hand to convey how ludicrous he finds that idea. “Nonsense. The sodding blockhead is mine, just as you are Niéle’s.” He grins at Dwalin, face still tired, but there’s a sparkle in his eyes again.

Niéle wakes several times during the rest of the day and in the evening. Every time she’s able to stay lucid and walk a few steps for a little while longer.

The next day is the same. It’s nearly time for Afternoon Tea and Dwalin sits on the couch with Niéle snuggled against his side, his arm slung around her, playing with her hair. She’s warm and comfortable in a clean tunic and wrapped in a soft blanket, and listens with rapt attention to Dwalin telling her all about the visit to Thranduil’s halls.

Bilbo is busy in the kitchen and Dwalin is curiously aware that Bilbo has spent a _lot_ of time in the kitchen today. But he knows that the hobbit cooks and bakes when he’s on edge about something, and he assumes it’s that.

He knows he’s wrong when there’s a knock on the door and as Bilbo goes and answers it all the members of the Company come shuffling into the room, herded in by the hobbit, slowly and cautiously gauging Dwalin’s reaction at their presence. Wrapping his arm around Niéle’s shoulders protectively Dwalin narrows his eyes. “What’s this then?” he growls.

Bilbo stands before him, bobbing on the balls of his furry feet. “Niéle’s asked me to invite them all. To discuss things. To explain things.”

Dwalin stares, unwilling to comprehend.

The hobbit sighs and rolls his eyes slightly. “Niéle’s asked me to tell them how she came to be with me. To tell them everything,” he says plainly.

Dwalin cannot believe his ears. “And what have they done that has earned them the privilege to learn about my Niéle’s darkest, most desperate days?” Dwalin asks lowly and glares at Dís as she sweeps into the room like the princess she is. She meets his eyes, holding his gaze without a flinch, her back straight and her stance proud. She wears her courtly mask, Dwalin knows, but he also sees the sudden glimmer of relief crossing behind her eyes at the sight of Niéle awake and well, followed by regret - but he is not ready for this, he feels his anger boil and he moves to stand and walk away with his Niéle scooped up into his arms.

Before he can gather his bearings however her small hand comes up to tug on his beard so he has no choice but look down into her warm brown eyes. “They need to know, Dwalin,” she says softly.

Dwalin shakes his head stubbornly.

He’s worried.

Niéle is just better. Wouldn’t it do her harm to bring all of the misery up again? Now? “It’s not good for you, my Niéle,” he tells her hoarsely, already knowing that he’s going to lose that argument. He closes his eyes. “I don’t want you hurt,” he confesses in a whisper. ”I can’t ... I just can’t see you-.”

“I won’t get hurt.” Niéle smiles up at him as she spells out his fear, looking as sweet and lovely as anything. An arm winds around his neck and she pulls herself up, so she can look straight into his eyes. A hand cups his cheek and she touches her forehead to his. When Niéle speaks her voice is soft, but clear. “You said we’ve seen enough darkness. That Erebor has seen enough darkness. You are right. I only want to live in the light from now on, with you, in Erebor. I know the darkness in my mind will never fully go away, but I want to banish as much of it as I can.”

Dwalin closes his eyes and swallows. She’s heard him when he said those very words the other evening! And now she wants to be brave and heed his words and for that everything needs to be brought out in the open. Dwalin knows she’s right.

It doesn’t make it easier though.

And it certainly doesn’t make his worries go away.

“Don’t be afraid,” she whispers, only for him to hear and pets his shoulders with her small hands, “Nothing can harm me when I’m in your arms.”

The trust she has in him!

He holds her tight and they don’t move until his breathing settles again. Then he lifts his head and gives a nod of consent, making Niéle beam at him, a well pleased sparkle in her warm brown eyes.

While he settles on the couch once more he notices that Fíli and Kíli stand apart from their Amad, and that Thorin, who’s last to enter Bilbo’s sitting room, keeps himself deliberately separate from all. The King’s face is stony, but there are bags under his eyes and his lips are taut; Dwalin knows him well enough to see how he’s been tormenting himself these past days, probably even more so after Fíli’s cut his braid. Internally sighing he gives Bilbo an encouraging nod, understanding that this gathering is not necessarily something the hobbit would have initiated either, but did on Niéle’s behest, likely - like Dwalin - seeing the wisdom in it.

_So be it._

Dwalin has never shied from a challenge and he’ll take this one on as he did all others: head on. Still, he gladly takes his Niéle’s small hand when she pushes it into his palm, tucking her head under his chin. That doesn’t stop him from making sure he promises permanent beardloss with his glare around the room, should anyone upset her.

The message is received, judging by the uneasy shuffles.

It does not take long, with Dori’s and Bombur’s help, to see everyone seated and with a cup of tea and strategically place platters with little tarts and pies on nearly every flat surface of the room. Even now the hobbit is the perfect host.

For a while it’s quiet and apart from the sounds of chewing and the occasional clink of a cup against a saucer the room is silent with uneasy apprehension. Dwalin shares a look with his Nadad; Balin gives him an apologetic smile, folding himself in his chair with an expression both pained and expectant.

Dwalin doesn’t have the appetite to eat just now, and instead takes his time to look at each and every one of the dwarves in the room, trying to gauge their mood. All meet his gaze, which is good, and Dwalin sees a lot of regret, self-blame, trepidation and shame in their expressions. Also irrigation and displeasure, if he interprets the sideways gazes directed at Dís correctly - who chose a single chair at the far end of the room, again keeping herself set apart. And at Thorin. Thorin, whose blue eyes meet his very briefly, unable to hide the well of emotions in them. Aye, the King has had a rough few days.

When it appears most have emptied their cup and Bilbo is still sitting in his chair with a deeply thoughtful look Niéle, who’s kept her eyes closed until now, nibbling on a few bits of fruit tart, stirs. “Bilbo,” she whispers softly.

The hobbit comes back to reality with a start. They look at each other for a long moment, the hobbit and the small woman who he considers his daughter, then her eyes fall shut, the weight of exhaustion pulling them down once more. “Tell them,” she instructs in a murmur and despite the brave face she puts on Dwalin can feel her trepidation.

With a sigh Bilbo nods and settles himself in his seat, taking his time to take one more sip from his tea.

When he speaks it is with a firm voice. “The Rangers brought her to me,” he says, his eyes on a spot on the wall, the memory from that day clearly at the front of his mind’s eye. “She was maybe eight or ten, it was hard to tell, because she was so small. They told me Gandalf had recommended I would take care of her.” The hobbit snorts. “Typical! Blasted wizard and his tendency to make decisions for other people. But whatever Gandalf’s reasons I did not refuse them. Because what kind of person would I be to turn a child away that was in desperate need of care?” He takes another sip. “Besides my own faunthood and the stories my cousins told about their offspring I knew next to nothing of children. And Niéle was ...” he frowns, sorting his words. “They told me they had found her when their travels took them through the barrow-downs near Bree. I’ve never been there and they said it’s not a landscape anyone ventures into unless in great need, which they had at the time.”

Aye, Dwalin only has traveled along the edge of that stretch of land north of the Great East Road, between the Weather Hills and the Brandywine. A sea of roving hills, with valleys and high ridges, like the rough waters of Long Lake during spring storms Dwalin remembers from his youth. Even with clear blue skies and the sun high on mid-day there seemed to be an odd shadow on everything, making the distance hazy and deceptive. It was a disconcerting place and the rock there spoke of battles long past and death and misery. Dwalin would not travel through that landscape either unless in great need, if that. He shares a look with Thorin, knowing his friend has the same thoughts.

“They had only meant to cut through it and would not have done even that if not two of their party were Elves. Elrohir and Elladan, Lord Elrond’s sons, have always given their time to the cause of the Rangers,” Bilbo explains. “They barely made a short distance when fog crept over the hills, swallowing all sights and sounds. The Rangers are hardened men, but they said it was impossible to shake the feeling of being trapped and difficult not to lose heart. That’s when they found her wandering amongst the green mounds and scattered boulders. A child, clearly a Daughter of Men, but not nearly half the size she should have been. She was deathly pale with her eyes wide open but unseeing, wearing a white, threadbare shift, her hair in a tight braid with golden chains woven through it, and she was decorated head to toe with jeweled ornaments in gold and silver. They called to her, but she did not react. And when they touched her she recoiled, fleeing from them silently, losing much of the trinkets in the process. Chasing after her and following the trail of the spilled treasures brought them to the entrance of a barrow, where a cold voice murmured ancient words. Lord Elrond’s sons recognized it as an incantation and managed to rally the others before they fell under its spell.” Bilbo looks at Niéle who has pulled herself up with her arm around Dwalin’s neck and buries her face into the crook of his head. She is trembling, her cold nose rubbing against the skin of his neck, and Dwalin does his best to soothe her by gently stroking her back with his large hands.

The hobbit speaks quicker, as if to speed the story along. “They managed to fight off the spell and lay open the barrow. They found Niéle deep within, hiding in a tiny corner and after coaxing her out they took her with them.”

The faces of the dwarrow in the room are horrified, disbelieving, confused.

Dwalin knows he has to add what he knows. “Aye,” he confirms, “Mirdinhanadlibrîn. My Niéle was held captive by a barrow-wight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always: Khuzdul from the dwarrowscholar.  
> Nadad - older brother  
> Binamradamrâb - important person/leader of integrity and honour  
> Naddith - brother that is young   
> Mirdinhanadlibrîn - Barrow Downs
> 
>  
> 
> Well, I hope nobody saw that coming! I was always fascinated with Frodo’s encounter with the barrow-wight and decided to play with ‘the dead do not suffer the living to pass’ - from LOTR, which I’m sure all Tolkien geeks out there recognize *wink* – in this case the dead aka the barrow-wight does suffer one living in his vicinity: Niéle. Why? Hm.  
> Sorry – not - about the cliffhanger 


	7. Chapter 7

And over the gasps of shock and alarm Dwalin tells them what Niéle’s been able to convey: of the dreadful pull of the spells, of ancient words so powerful that they turned her to helpless pray, unable to run, as her knees would give out, leaving her trembling and filled with dread until she gave up on even trying. He tells them of heartless and grim songs that came straight from the ground, deep and cold, of pale greenish light, of dead hands with an icy touch and a strong, cold grip and eyes as pale as freezing water. “She has little memory of before and does not remember of how she came to be in that terrible place. She’s sure she’s had a birth family though, once, there’s a faint echo of laughter and a happy heart. But it’s all vague.”

Niéle shakes in his arms now, her face is pale and her expression pinched, her brown eyes wide and filled with terror. Dwalin moves her until he can press soft kisses on her eyelids, helping her close them to keep the deep and heavy memories at bay.

“Trapped,” she whispers tonelessly, clinging to him, “trapped and locked away. No escape. My feet move against my will, always taking me back. Back to the green light. And always cold hands reaching for me. I need to make myself small. I need to make myself tiny. To fit in small corners and little nooks. The hands can’t reach me there. The tight braid hurts my head. And always wails, wails in the dark, wails in the night, ending abruptly. It is so cold. Always cold. Cold gold, cold silver, cold gems. Food tastes like ash and death. And there is never enough. There is no warmth. No sense. No hope.”

It is thoroughly distressing to see Niéle like this and Dwalin fears she will get lost in her consciousness once more. He can feel her heart beat in her chest, panicked and as if she’s run from foes for half a day. He grips both her hands in one of his and places them onto his chest where his heart beats in a steady rhythm. Curling the fingers of his other hand into her thick hair he tilts her face into his. “Hush now, my snowdrop,” he croons and kisses her lips, “There is no darkness here, cold and death can no longer hold sway of you. Here is where I am with you, and dreams of warmth and hope and our life together.” And he kisses her again, slowly, taking his time to have her savour his lips. She relaxes so obviously that he knows even the impropriety of his caress in public will be forgiven by the witnesses in the room in light of the alternative. When she’s calmed again her fingers thread through his and she smiles up at him shyly from under long lashes; he nearly blushes then, guessing too well the direction her thoughts just ventured to. She is ever ready to share intimacy with him.

Clearing his throat to compose himself Dwalin looks over the dwarrow in the room, trying to gauge their reaction to what they’ve just heard.

Most are looking away but they all look thoroughly shaken. Balin meets his eyes, true, serious sorrow in every line of his face. Ori, _Mahal bless him_ , has tears streaming down his face, Dori patting his shoulder in consolidation, his lips thin in a pale face, and even reaching for Nori to grasp his hand. Óin and Glóin clutch each other’s arms, faces severe. Fíli and Kíli have visibly wilted at that cause of Niéle’s sometimes off behaviour. Dís’ countenance remains regal, but alarm and distress burn in her eyes. Thorin hangs his head after meeting his gaze briefly, and Dwalin has seen shock and surprise morph into shame, heartache and pity.

“All forces of darkness are evil,” Bifur rasps with his brows furrowed in sincere compassion, an arm around both Bombur’s and Bofur’s drooped shoulders. “Being at their mercy is a fate worse than death.” And the old dwarf would know, having had to live with an axe in his forehead for almost a century, from Azanulbizar until he lost it during the Battle of Five Armies, and which often gave him a strange edge not unsimilar to that of Niéle.

They all mumble their ayes at that and Bilbo nods, his face crestfallen; it occurs to Dwalin that Niéle’s not told the hobbit nearly as much as she told him. “Neither the Rangers nor the Elves could offer an explanation as to why an ancient dead spirit would want Niéle around and why she did not fully fall under his spell. Elladan did mention though that – to him – her soul feels uncommonly innocent and pure, unlike few other mortal beings he has encountered. I’ve learned since then that Niéle knows no guile. So it may well be the reason, but we’ll never know. That forsaken place’s foul magic may also be the reason Niéle is so small: both lack of food and care and the constant need to hide herself have affected her growth at a time when she should have grown plenty.” Bilbo sighs. “As to how she came to be there and where any of her blood family was: apparently there were a large number of bodies in the barrows that were more … recent than the ancient, enshrined dead,” Bilbo continues quietly. “It may well be that they were travelling through the area and fell under the wight’s spell. The Rangers carried much of the treasure outside, exposing it to the open sky. They said the bewitched fog cleared almost immediately, and the air that was silent, heavy and chill before was filled with the gentle sound of a wind rustling in the grass and warmed by the sun that was no longer pale and watery yellow but bright as a summer’s sun ought to be. They took some of the treasure that was in the nook Niéle had hidden in, thinking that – if it was her family’s – she should have it. Those pieces are part of Niéle’s glory box. Unfortunately, Niéle did not suffer touch. Not the Rangers’ nor the Elves, and it was lucky they met up with Gandalf not long after, who was the only one able to calm her. Within a few days she was with me, in much the state she’s been in when Dwalin and I returned from the Woodland Realm. I did my best to care for her. As nothing was known of her the first I needed was a name. At the time I was in the middle of translating a book of poems from Sindarin into Westron. One, in particular, caught my attention:

‘Tripping lightly on the point of her toes,

thither came little Niéle,

that maiden like a [snowdrop](https://www.elfdict.com/phrases/2-quenya/43-nieninque_snowdrop#!3196),

to whom the air gives soft kisses.

The mountain dwellers came thither,

and the foam-fays like butterflies,

the white people of the shores of Elfland,

with feet like the music of fallen leaves.’

For some reason it resonated with me, and from that day she was Niéle to me.” Bilbo looks at her fondly.

“It is the perfect name,” Dwalin says and leans down to kiss the crown of her head. Niéle smiles sweetly, all calm again, looking at the hobbit from sleepy eyes.

Bilbo shoots a look at Dís. “So there, that’s why she’s got an Elvish name.” He gingerly places his now empty tea cup on the saucer and puts it down on the table before him. When he leans back again he folds his hands on top of his nicely bolstered belly. “I was in regular contact with Rivendell and with the Rangers, who each have their own methods of healing. They concurred regarding what and how to feed her and kept my spirits up with advice when I occasionally lost a bit of hope. For it was two years that she remained trapped in her mind. During that time I learned well enough to distinguish what reached her consciousness in a good or in a bad way. Reading to her was suggested to me by both Rivendell and the Rangers, but it was quickly clear that it sent her in anxious depths of panic.”

Niéle stirs in Dwalin’s arms. “Words,” she explains with a shiver, “Words. Always words. Words to trap me, words to numb me, words to send me to sleep. Words full of hatred, full of malice, cold words, harsh words. Words that terrify and words that kill. I do not like words.” She shivers again and buries her face into Dwalin’s chest. He brings his hand up to cup the back of her head and holds her gently, exchanging a look with Bilbo.

“Yes, words can be very powerful,” the hobbit agrees calmly, “And they hold too many bad memories for Niéle. Which is why,” he shoots another pointed look at Dís, “Reading complex texts by herself or listening to the endless droning of someone else is still having that same stressful effect on Niéle today. She has done nicely learning her letters and can do her sums well enough to run her business, but she’ll never be able to find enjoyment in books or stringing words together in long letters. She does like stories though, if they are told with much effect, and much of Arda’s history I’ve taught her by retelling it as a story. And she does like music, not the ethereal sounds the Elves prefer but anything with a good rhythm. The livelier the better.”

Dwalin chuckles. Aye, she’s well at home with the songs dwarrow prefer as well, all with much stomping and hopping and fast spins. How her eyes sparkle when Dwalin leads her across the dance floor in a flurry, safe in his strong arms!

“Closed doors, even if not locked, proved a problem for a long time. It seems the memory of not being able to leave the wight’s barrow when she wanted to still translates to those situations. Although we managed to overcome the open door issue, for they can now be closed at least, even if they cannot be locked. Obviously the Marriage Confinement didn’t work at all. And the dungeons had been a very close call.” The members of the Company grumble as Bilbo mentions their ‘stay’ in the Mirkwood during the quest.

Dwalin shifts Niéle slightly when she tenses and cups her face with his free hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Aye, she nearly fell apart and it was a blessing Tauriel allowed for her to be locked in my cell. Much of her life Niéle’s told me then, and I’ve pieced more together on my own.”

Bilbo is quick to nod. “Yes, I am truly grateful for Tauriel for that small mercy. I was hard pressed to get you all out of that place as it was, had Niéle been on her own and broken down I’m not sure how an escape would have worked at all.” The hobbit rubs a tired hand over his forehead and sighs. “Back in the Shire days and weeks and months did blend into each other. Why Niéle woke when she did I do not know, but one day she just blinked and it was as if she’s always lived in Bag End. She slept many hours of the day and all through the night for almost another year, but while awake she moved through the smial as if she’d done so for years. Which is why I knew she’s well aware of what goes on around her even if in that deplorable state of shock.” Bilbo smiles softly as he looks at Niéle, who has calmed again and sits once more with her head leaned against Dwalin’s shoulder, meeting the hobbit’s eyes sleepily. “Fresh grass,” she mutters, “Fresh grass and home and sunshine.”

Bilbo frowns, confused. “Smells? Smells of the Shire brought you back?”

Niéle shakes her head, making the dark brown locks that hang lose around her face dance. “You,” she gives him a small smile, trying to explain. “You. You are like fresh grass and home and sunshine. Like fresh bread and warm dinner. Like fruit and fresh washing. I wanted to be where you are. Away from the cold and the terror in my mind. Not remembering that place where smells didn’t exist. Where cold hands were reaching for me, grabbing me, always, always touching me, decorating me. I don’t ... I can’t.” She squeezes her eyes shut and clenches her hand into Dwalin’s tunic as if it’s a lifeline.

He understands. “Aye, my snowdrop,” he soothes her, “Everything real is better than the darkness that trapped you. The plain light of day even if it rains, wind, even if it’s cold, a Winter’s sun, even if it’s pale; it’s all better than the horrors of the barrow. The howls of wargs instead of undead wails. Even troll stink is a sign of life and better than nothing.”

She grins at him and her eyes light up at his attempt to joke. Her hand lets go of his tunic and moves to tenderly stroke his cheek. “And you,” she says softly, “You are warm, body and soul, and you take the chill out of heart and limb. You say may name the same way you say the word beautiful. And the moment I saw you I knew that the only thing I ever wanted to see from that day on is your smile. With you, the nights hold no terrors and every day is full of promise.”

This time Dwalin blushes in earnest.

He can feel the flush spread from the tips of his ears all the way to his neck and ducks his head. She laughs her bell-like laugh then, not caring if he feels embarrassed - which he so does _not_ because has she not just declared her love for all to hear? - and her small hand smoothes over his bald head and traces from his mangled ear to the scar in his brow. “You’ve been in enough pain and endured enough anguish to last many lifetimes. I want you happy, with me.” Niéle’s beautiful brown eyes are alight with love for him, and _possessiveness_ , and Dwalin’s heart swells. He nearly gives in to his impulse to scoop her into his chest and take her next door, where the bed is, to reciprocate her love declaration in a more physical way.

It likely shows on his face, as Bilbo sniggers. “None of that now, Dwalin!” The hobbit grins, and a few more chuckles can be heard in the room. Cutting a gaze around Dwalin can see that not one takes what they just witnessed badly. Balin outright beams, as do Nori, Bofur and the lads, although the latter are a bit pink around the ears as well, innocent as they are in that regard. Ori’s nearly as crimson as Dori’s tunic; the prim dwarf tutting and lightly shaking his head, but there’s a smile curling his lips. And while Dís and Thorin are unreadable with their masks on, Óin, Glóin and Bombur look quite a bit sappy - and thoroughly approving.

If that’s what it takes to have his Niéle’s love for him accepted Dwalin will suffer a crimson head and being caught thinking bedroom thoughts gladly.

Bilbo shuffles a bit in his seat and waits until Niéle is resting her head against Dwalin’s shoulder once more, before he continues. “They say it is easier to build up a child than it is to repair an adult,” he says, “Which is what I have tried in all the nearly fourteen years that followed her waking. But the Shire is a quiet place, for Niéle it sometimes was too quiet. While all the freedom it provides for running around outside was a blessing Niéle does not do well sitting still and she has trouble pacing her days, which is why following a schedule is a good thing for her. Dwalin has understood this without me ever telling him. She’s a good worker and an alright gardener, but she has no instinct for it, which is why it ever held little interest for her. What she always has been fascinated with though was little things. Pebbles, acorns, nuts, pieces of antler. In the markets the stall with the shells and colourful rocks was the one she always spent the most time at. When she almost obsessively sorted buttons at my tailor’s one day I made inquiries and managed to get her the necessary tools. I have no hand for things like that, and I thought she might just dabble in it for fun, but she’s figured it out all on her own, never had any lesson or help with any of it.” The hobbit smiles proudly and Dwalin understands that feeling, for he’s proud of her as well. For a dwarf, the skills of a craft are the height of his existence. For Niéle to have that urge - it is a good thing, a blessing, and something all of them are familiar with. “She’s done so well that her wares became much sought after, in the Shire and all the way to Bree, and even farther afield over the years.” Bilbo sighs and an expression of severity takes over the pride. “Hobbits ... we don’t live exciting lives - with a few exceptions. Everything we do revolves around our seven meals, around planting and harvest and celebration. We did some traveling, Niéle and I, to visit my relations in Buckland and Tookborough, who have accepted her far better than the Bagginses in Hobbiton have. I might be the Baggins of Bag End, with some standing and enough wealth to be comfortable. But I am also the _Mad_ Baggins, who is not proper at all and who lived alone most of his life, being daft enough to be friends with Elves and Men and to take in a child from another race. I’ve done my best to teach Niéle about family, even though I’m not the right teacher for that. I’ve taught her about flower language and that food is good and wholesome, that silence is not always a bad thing. She’s done everything the other lasses in the Shire do, we’ve worked on her glory box for many years and she’s had a big coming of age party when she turned 18. But I know that while she was always happy enough something has always been missing from her life. When that something waltzed into my door and ate my dinner it was certainly the most unexpected circumstance I could possibly have imagined. Whatever it is between Dwalin and Niéle, it was there the moment they locked eyes for the first time. And has been there ever since, growing steadily. Whatever it is, it is good enough for me.” Bilbo sighs. “Which is why I followed her counsel when she insisted I call you all today. To explain and hopefully overcome this ... stalemate. For their sakes. To be sure,” he purses his lips and looks at each face in turn, “I am still angry that you all neglected to keep her safe, that you just brushed over what you know about her from all our months on the road. That you discarded the fact she left her home for you, shed blood with you, and kept your secrets. But I am also just thoroughly relieved Niéle’s already back to herself. For that I am willing to move forward, even though I want it to be clear that forgiveness does not mean excusing. Not yet anyway. Not ever maybe.”

The room is silent. Guilt is palatable, and Dwalin can see that they all are very determined to bare their souls, but all wait respectfully for Bilbo to finish speaking.

The hobbit, however, looks at the floor, suddenly sad and disappointed. “I see now that it is good I have told it all. Although it never occurred to me before, the fact that I haven’t ... Your reactions have been a direct result of my silence. Which means I have failed Niéle most cruelly and in essence what happened is my fault.”

Heads are fiercely shaken, faces look dismayed and doleful mutters of protest spring up around the room.

_Oh, Bilbo._

Niéle, who has been dozing for a moment, sits up straighter, visibly confused about the hobbit’s admission.

“From where I’m sitting you’re pretty damn near perfect, Master Baggins,” Thorin speaks, rather unexpectedly. And rather harshly, looking at his Consort with a mix of incredulity and exasperation. “Our race cherishes the young but even amongst us you would have been hard pressed to find any to take in a Daughter of Men, even - or rather especially - in the state you described Niéle to have been in. You have gone far beyond what was necessary for her to survive. In the end, you even left your home for her sake. Because she was taken with a grumpy, scarred dwarf and him with her.” The King’s words are grave but honest. “If you, who is so above reproach, castigates himself then how can I ever excuse sinking so low as to condemn anyone for fearing the entrapment of their own mind. I am the last person who has any right to be doing that. Yet I have allowed it. Not by willful command, true, but by keeping my silence, not interfering.”

It’s Dís’ turn to sit up straighter, alarmed. “Thorin-“

“No,” the King cut her off with a sharp movement of his hand, his tone firm, the lines around his mouth and on his forehead more pronounced than ever before. “We are both guilty, Nan’ith, for not having made every attempt to get to know the woman who has captured Dwalin’s heart. Despite my reluctance to have her on the quest there is no denying that Niéle has coped much better than any lass her age should with the dangers we faced, and much better than many of our kin would have. I understand now that it was because she has seen far worse. To her even the most banal of things are a blessing and she fully embraces them. What I have considered naivety is really a lightheartedness born from having faced pure evil. I should have seen it. I should have understood it, especially after the gold sickness.” It is dead silent in the room. Thorin has never spoken about his state of mind while overcome with madness. As he thinks on it, Dwalin can see how it would be similar to what Niéle has experienced.

Thorin sighs and turns to Dís. “I have allowed you to barge forward with your attempts to ‘educate’ Niéle, nearly breaking her spirit in the process, hurting and insulting both Dwalin and my Betrothed. Yet, graver fault lies with me, as I have not once even spoken to her in all the months of the quest. The Company is angry with me, and rightly so, and my heir is so upset with what happened that he cut his braid. And it is my fault.”

“Thorin-“ Dís glumly tries again.

Dwalin is sure she has not expected Thorin to take the blame in such a way, and for the first time there is true anguish on her face. She’s about to retort when Bilbo speaks, calmly: “As ever you blame yourself too harshly. And your praise for me is too high, Thorin, I am anything but perfect.”

Thorin nods, his blue eyes fixed on his Consort. “Aye, you are too forgiving, it is perhaps your biggest flaw.”

“But I am much happier for it,” Bilbo smiles wryly and folds his hands in his lap. “Keeping grudges is exhausting and pointless. That is what friendship and love are all about: to know someone’s virtues as well as their flaws, to cherish the former and to try to better the latter. My father used to say that, and I have found it to be very true.”

“So ... you will remain in Erebor?” Thorin’s blue eyes are pleading and the King clearly holds his breath.

Bilbo rolls his eyes. “Of course I am, you sodding blockhead! Have you not learned by now that I can be just as stubborn as you? And besides,” the hobbit shares a look with Dwalin over Niéle’s head, who has her eyes closed and is breathing deeply. “I’ve found that mountains have a funny way of growing on you. The Shire does not contain enough rock and stone for me any more now.”

Dwalin’s eyes fall on Dís as she looks up. The princess swallows. “It is not right for Thorin to take all the blame, no matter what,” her tone is bitter and her chin is proudly lifted, but it is obvious that she’s quite shaken. “Erebor’s noble council and their families are important to the Kingdom,” she looks Bilbo dead in the eyes, “but I have paid too much attention to those that have never done anything to better the lives of my family. I have also been reminded that - had Erebor not fallen - I’d never been able to marry my Víli, since he was much below my rank.” Her eyes briefly flicker to Balin, who nods his head.

_Thank you, Nadad_ , Dwalin thinks and is ready for Dís to meet his steely gaze. “And I have forgotten what it’s like to love someone passionately, with all your heart. How precious it is. And how it should mean more than anything else. Especially to us.”

Dwalin eyes her sharply for a moment but when he sees the sincerity in her expression he tips his head, taking her words for what they are - an attempt at a first apology - and accepting them in silence. He’s far off forgiving yet, but it is a beginning.

“Life’s biggest tragedy is that we get old too soon, and wise too late,” Balin says sagely, smiling sadly, “I have no objection to my brother’s union with Niéle. I never did, although I won’t deny that I’ve had concerns. The Council is powerful, and many of its members can cause havoc if they wish. I am certain, however, that amongst us in this room, we can find ways to shield Niéle from their venom, and it is to my shame that I have not thought of it that way before.”

“Folk love Niéle,” Nori says immediately, strongly, “With a bit of tweaking her place will easily be cemented in most hearts in the mountain, even amongst some of the nobles.”

For all the decades Nori has given him nothing but grief in Ered Luin Dwalin is, for the first time, truly grateful for the special sneaky skill set of the now spy-master of Erebor. He gives him a sincere nod of approval, making Nori’s eyes flash in pleased surprise.

Bilbo rubs his hands together. “Well, much mending still needs to be done, but at least we’re all on the same page once more.”

“Bilbo,” Niéle speaks softly, “You should show them my wedding dress.”

The hobbit startles a bit at the very idea and shoots an incredulous look at Niéle. But then he thinks for a moment, nods and makes to get up. “You are right. But I’ll be standing behind Dwalin, because he cannot see it, and you should cover his ears, so he doesn’t hear what I say.”

Niéle giggles and - suddenly wide awake - climbs on Dwalin’s lap until she straddles him. It is a very intimate position, and not one Dwalin normally would ever allow her to take outside of their own rooms, but after all the Company’s heard about her and with Niéle’s eyes bright with mischief he just shakes his head at her, knowing she’d read his mind well enough. Her giggle turns into another bell-like laugh and she kisses his nose before taking his big hands and leading them to clamp tightly over his ears. She puts her own on top and smiles at him before leaning forward to rest her chin on his collarbone. Her head is still heavy and despite her smiles Dwalin knows she needs to sleep again, soon.

Dwalin can tell from the faces of the dwarrow in front of him when Bilbo’s back. He also can hear the hobbit’s voice, muffled and soft, obviously barely above a whisper, and with his own and Niele’s hands covering his ears Dwalin has no idea what he says. But the faces in front of him tell him more than words ever could: surprise and raised eyebrows give way to awe, thorough appreciation and suspiciously misty eyes. Dori, the only dwarf in the room with proper knowledge of fabric and stitching is positively twitching with wonderment and the desire to touch whatever spectacle Bilbo and Niéle have created. Glóin and Bombur, the only other married dwarves in the room, look between the dress, Niéle and Dwalin with the solemn, dazed knowledge of what it’s like to see your love in a wedding dress. Balin wipes at his eyes when they overflow with feeling. The lads smirk, Bofur stares dreamily, Ori sniffles and his hands jerk towards his notebook to make a sketch only to check himself back with a frown. Bifur looks even more determined and Dwalin knows he’s not ever going to have to worry about a bodyguard for his Niéle. The way Dís’ mouth curls tells Dwalin that the princess thoroughly approves (which tells him it’s not a petticoats-ish design) and Thorin’s eyes hang on every word his Consort says. Even the blasted thief come spymaster has lost his usual sly grin and looks unusually sappy now.

All gazes flicker to Niéle where she is still perched on Dwalin’s lap, helping him to cover his ears. There is wonder in their expressions now, admiration and even pride and Dwalin feels elated, smug, possessive, thrilled and in love, all at once.

When Bilbo returns after packing Niéle’s wedding dress away once more Niéle is comfortably in Dwalin’s arms again, her head resting on his chest. Her eyes keep falling shut and she clearly struggles now to keep herself awake. Bilbo exchanges a look with Dwalin and then addresses the room at large: “Well, you’ve all come and I thank you for it. I thank you for listening and with Niéle well and truly on the mend hopefully we can put this whole affair behind us.” The hobbit bobs on the balls of his feet, as he always does when he’s giving a little speech and is unsure of how it will be received.

Wanting to help Bilbo out - he’s been brave enough in organizing this whole situation after all while Dwalin did bugger all - Dwalin gets up, Niéle in his arms. “I’ll put my Niéle to bed and return shortly. To finish off this conversation.”

She’s half asleep when Dwalin places her head on her pillow and makes sure she’s nice and snug and warm under the blankets and furs. Then he goes back out, leaving the door wide open.

It does not take long. Apologies are made, some solemn, some stone-faced, some teary, but all effective, and all heartfelt.

Who would have thought knowing a hobbit and a little Daughter of Men could bring out so much humbleness to a group of dwarrow? And as quick as their race is to anger - often relishing in that anger, too - Bilbo has taught them that one can forgive just as quickly: and relish that the same. The Company has had the luxury of being exposed to that way of thinking for many months to have this particular trait of the hobbit rub off on them, but rub off it very clearly has. And it is a luxury Dís has not had - she now looks on with wonder, confusion, contriteness and quite a bit of shame.

Dwalin has accepted all apologies but has waved off all attempts of sacrifice, telling them to keep their beards and braids, and that instead he expects their future behaviour to reflect their regret for the past. Bilbo smiles at him proudly at that. 

When the Company leaves Dori is accepted to help with the wedding dress, Ori with the invitations, Bombur will come for Second Breakfast the following day to discuss the menu for the wedding, Balin is invited to lunch to discuss the wedding procedure and any laws that need upholding. As is Dís, who will also come to tea the day after, to try and mend what she broke in her misguided ambition. The lads volunteer themselves to teach Niéle some of the more complicated wedding dances the Khazâd are fond of; they’re still stompy and rompy enough in their drumming rhythm if a bit more ceremonial; Dwalin knows Niéle will like learning them and permits it.

Thorin pays rapt attention to everything that is being said but keeps himself apart, almost timidly. Until Dwalin simply stomps right in front of him and gives him a long, hard look. Then the King falters, bowing his head and nearly crumbling in his attempt of a proper apology. Suddenly Dwalin realizes even these words don’t matter, it’s all in Thorin’s heart, which is a complex one, and it is also enough. He grabs his friend’s shoulders and smashes their foreheads together that even the tough warrior King winces, followed immediately by a wry grin that curls his mouth and lightens his eyes, and they embrace heartily.

Dís leaves last with an arm of both Fíli and Kíli slung over her shoulder, her expression cautiously grateful. For the first time Dwalin truly recognizes that the lads are grown up now. They will have to forge their own lives now, with all the ups and downs that might entail. Dwalin knows that the mending that still needs to happen is not only true to his Niéle and the Company, and even though he knows that tempers will still fly, there is hope now. 

When all is said and done and it’s clear Bilbo is going to have the help of a certain sodding blockhead to tidy the dishes Dwalin gets himself ready for bed, slips under the furs and embraces his snowdrop. She wakes briefly, wraps an arm around his neck and sleepily demands his kisses. He obliges, naturally. When her pretty face is all flushed and her berry-red lips are swollen she withdraws and as she burrows into him with a content sigh he lets her sleep for a while. It’s when her stomach grumbles loudly some hours later, that he gets up and fetches the platter of food from the kitchen Bilbo in his foresight has already prepared.

It is quiet in the hobbit’s quarters, the door to his bedroom shut for once. 

Dwalin grins to himself and returns to his own bed, where an awake Niéle sits and waits for him, brown eyes wide and her berry-red lips curled into a sweet smile.

Such perfect lips.

They beg to be kissed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK. Some will say they could not forgive Dis, Thorin or the Company that quickly for what happened. Ten years ago I would have agreed and happily had carried that grudge and burned bridges. Not any more though. Life is unpredictable, and often cruel, and never fair. I feel that Dwalin and Bilbo would embrace the joys and focus on the future rather than dwell on their anger: Bilbo because it’s the way he is and Dwalin because he has better things to focus on. I hope I have explored Dwalin’s thought processes enough for it all to make sense.   
> And even if things are forgiven, that does not mean they are forgotten, and certainly not excused. A lot of mending will still have to happen, despite the apologies. And really, apologies, even if they come from the heart, cannot mend hurt, at least not for me. As Dwalin says: he expects to see everyone’s future behavior to reflect their regret about what has happened. I think only then it shows if lessons have been learnt. 
> 
> Regarding ‘Nieninque – Snowdrop’ - Niéle: The poem is by Professor Tolkien himself. He presented it during a lecture where he wanted to demonstrate the joys of creating his own language. I don’t need to say that he was a genius. 
> 
> As for Niéle: the facts are as they are: somehow she ended up captive of a barrow-wight. It can be assumed that she travelled with family, all of them perished, and for some reason she was kept alive. We can only guess why. I have only ever met one person I would consider without guile, and calling that sort of person naïve is not a lie. But it’s a rare thing, and special, and it should be embraced. As wights do not need food Niéle would only have been kept there for a few months at the most, being barely fed, but even the shortest time would be enough to meddle with your mind, I’m sure. She would never have been a tall Daughter of Men but she’s particular small now because of the effect of the spells and the way she’s tried to hide herself away in the smallest corners of the barrow. The rest of her peculiarities I have explained well enough, I hope, and they make sense. 
> 
> Anyway, who likes weddings?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who followed this small story and took the time to leave kudos and comments. You guys are awesome, consider yourselves hugged!  
> Enjoy the wedding :)

They do not keep to the Makabu Thurûkhu Abkân, to much heavy complaining from the Council. Until Dís uses her astonishingly comprehensive range of choice words and her raised axe to tell those noble dwarrow what will happen if they don’t lay off her future cousin by marriage. It raises eyebrows, for sure, but it also shuts mouths.

Gossip runs wild though, and so Dwalin takes his Niéle to carefully selected outings in the public eye - strictly following Nori’s advice - where it is soon clear that the commons folk indeed quite adore her and don’t give a whiff about where she comes from and why she’s here, only that she clearly utterly and besottedly loves that warrior from Durin’s line. When more and more nobles seem to cave in to that notion of romantic love as well Nori gives the wedding the all clear.

Weddings require a lot of preparation, Dwalin is well aware, but with many hands on deck all is done in next to no time at all only a few weeks after Niele’s woken from her terrors. Dain is invited and barely manages to arrive in time, as are Bard and his family, and Tauriel. It is not supposed to be a grand affair, this wedding, certainly not a stately one, but with the combination of hobbit customs and dwarrow customs it will most definitely be a unique one.

When Niéle’s excitement almost gets the better of her Dwalin refuses to sleep away from her even the night before the wedding and does his utmost to remind her mind and body of the present, using the best part of the night to tire her out enough so she gets some solid hours of deep sleep before the big day.

Dwalin leaves her only after First Breakfast, and it’s Bifur’s honour to do Niéle’s hair in Dwalin’s stead, the old dwarf proudly and single-mindedly focusing on braiding flowers into her few plaits and adding the butterfly hairpins to the braided crown on the top of her head; Dwalin’s worked hard to finish them on time, with Balin and Glóin helping him select the best gems the mountain has to offer. The rest of Niéle’s wild brown mane was to spill down her shoulders and her back, only this time wires of gold, silver and copper are woven through the strands, holding more flowers in place. That’s as much as Dwalin knows about her looks for the day, and if she has butterflies on her head, he has them in his stomach.

When it’s time Dwalin is in his new armour - black, silver and Mithril, crafted by Thorin - but he also wears furs over his shoulders, per Niéle’s request, as it’s how he looked when she first lay eyes on him in Bag End. His Nadad stands by his side as Dwalin waits on a raised platform at the far end of the Great Entrance Hall, the old dwarf proud and almost vibrating with joy. Not an inch of floorspace is to be had - apart from a path covered in red fabric that will lead Niéle to him and then the wedding party outside - and all the balconies, ramparts and parapets are filled to the brim with spectators. Flyers have been distributed all over the mountain in the days prior - Ori’s idea - to give the people an explanation of the hobbitish rituals the wedding was going to follow.

Knowing that Niéle’s nervous makes Dwalin nervous in turn and he struggles to keep himself from running to get to her side this instant.

Thorin’s mumbled reassurances that she’s fine do little to soothe him (they rather remind of another time Thorin said those very words) and Dwalin sighs in relief when Dís is lead in by her sons, a wide grin on her face and her eyes twinkling with happiness. She looks younger than she has in decades, Dwalin finds, and he is glad to see that his Niéle has brought a new quality to the life of the Durin princess as well. Dís has greatly changed her behavior around his snowdrop and is learning to embrace her lighthearted ways, making every effort to be a sister-slash-motherly-figure to her.

Drums start a beat and trumpets sound, letting everyone know that the bride has left her quarters. A hushed silence comes over the crowd as everyone’s craning their neck to catch the first look.

When - finally - they come into view Dwalin sees nothing at first because of the mist in his eyes, and he blinks furiously to not miss that moment when he gets to catch his Niéle’s gaze while she walks towards him. She clings to Bilbo’s arm, the hobbit looking proud as punch and mighty dapper in his eggshell white shirt and yellow silken weskit, the dark blue pants and velvety Durin blue, very Khazâd inspired jacket-slash-coat, every inch a Royal Consort and not only because of the braids and beads in his shoulder length curly hair.

Niéle though, Niéle ...

Dwalin has no words. He forgets to inhale for a few heartbeats and his chest expands as his body forces him to take a deep breath.

The dress is ... spectacular.

If Dís had worries it would be in the style of hobbits, barely reaching half way down the calves and with a thousand petticoats she certainly had to put those worries aside the moment Bilbo showed them the dress on the day all was revealed.

This dream of snow-white silks is in a cut unlike anything Dwalin has ever seen; it’s certainly not Hobbitish, nor Dwarrow. Not Elvish and not what he’s seen women wear in the towns of Men. Instead it is so remarkably unique that it unites all styles in rather perfect harmony.

It’s perfect for Niéle.

The lavish fabric flows like water with every step his snowdrop takes to come to him. Niéle’s arms and shoulders are covered in intricate lace, ending in a high line that perfectly emphasizes her slender neck. Everything is covered in pale, shimmering embroidery of silver thread, depicting flowers and gems. And there are some dots of colour Dwalin cannot quite make out as he’s too busy looking into his Niéle’s lovely, lovely brown eyes. They sparkle with such undiluted joy that Dwalin’s heart is in real danger of bursting.

Step by step Bilbo brings her closer to him. Niéle smiles, a little shakily, and Dwalin feels his lips curl into a wide, beaming grin in return. She freezes then, her breath visibly catching - and then she thoroughly breaks protocol, takes her hand off Bilbo’s forearm and throws her arms around his neck instead. The light kiss she presses on his cheek is rather exuberant and as Bilbo squeezes his eyes shut in surprise Niéle has already turned away from him, lifts her skirts and begins running towards Dwalin. Her hair and silken dress billow behind her and Dwalin steps down from the raised platform to receive her. He catches her easily when she launches herself into his arms, whirling her around with a chuckle while she squeals with breathless joy, ignoring the gasps of indignation from the nobles on the better places up on the balconies. Those gasps turn into mutters of indignation when Dwalin grabs his snowdrop and kisses her berry-red lips soundly, ignoring the mutters as well as the tittering that ripples through the crowd.

When Dwalin lets her go Niéle looks at him with a hand on his cheek. Her eyes are full of wonder and so much warmth and love for him that his stomach summersaults.

He’s _lost_.

Both Thorin and Balin have to clear their throats repeatedly to bring him back to the present. It’s not lost on the crowd that he’s love-struck, and the tittering and whispering is interrupted by chuckles and a few lone whoops and cheers send the whole audience into a ridiculous frenzy of clapping and jolliness.

The noise only tones down again when they are back on the raised platform and Bilbo takes Niéle’s small hand with a little exasperated smile to place it formally into Dwalin’s big palm.

Dwalin receives Niéle’s flower crown with pride, setting his on her head in turn. Their crowns are connected with a silken ribbon and together they walk along the red fabric, symbolizing the path they walk together from now on as married couple. Dwalin gently squeezes her small fingers in his and leads her to a specially prepared area just outside the Great Gates of Erebor, where a wide circle has been cleared in the summer meadows and decorated with flower garlands. A little arbor made of oak waits for them, covered with a canopy of white silk fabric and more flowers.

Bilbo presides over this hobbit part of the ceremony, speaking words of praise for the Green Lady and her love for all things living, and of the love that joins couples together for life. He points out that this ceremony would not create a relationship that does not already exist, but that it is merely a symbol of how far the both of them have come since they first laid eyes on each other.

Even though it is grand enough to befit the occasion Bilbo’s is a blessedly short speech and at the end Dwalin vows to grow stronger as an individual, because of Niéle by his side, that any challenges before them they would face not each on their own, but the both of them together, and no matter how much they would succeed, they would succeed together. He promises his deepest love, his fullest devotion and his most tender care, that he would give her his respect and lend her his strength all days of their life together.

Niéle’s lovely brown eyes are wide and full of such devotion! Her hands in his tremble but her voice is strong and clear when she speaks: “My dear Dwalin. You have shown me what love feels like and for that I thank you. You are everything I need and everything I want. Because of you, I laugh, I smile and I dare to dream more than I ever have. As I have given you my hand to hold I give you my life to keep.”

Dwalin holds her hands steady when Bilbo bids them to lift off their flower crowns and place them on the small table under the arbor. Together they take them apart and arrange the flowers together into one large bouquet, binding it with the silk ribbon.

Already while Bilbo spoke Dwalin had glanced down on Niéle’s dress, just enough to see that the dots of colour he noticed before amongst the lavish fabric of her skirt and in the lace are _pictures_. Pictures made from hundreds and hundreds of tiny beads and pieces of gems, bone, horn and shell. Carved and meticulously drilled and painstakingly stitched on to the delicate fabric to form images.

Now that their vows are said and Niéle picks up the bouquet and turns to face him with bright eyes Dwalin takes his time to look at those images.

They are images of Niéle’s life!

Dwalin can see a pale sun and a white, wispy figure surrounded by eerie blue rays of light at the front hem. There are the rolling green hills of the Shire, Bag End’s green door, mushrooms, a teapot, a flower garden, the party tree and the faces of hobbits Dwalin doesn’t know. He wants to see all of it and he takes Niéle’s hand, raising it high above her head, slowly making her turn for him. Dwalin recognizes himself in one of the pictures, and his axes, the runes of the tattoos on his knuckles, and the fish he ate on that first day in Bag End. Each and every dwarf from the Company is there, too, the trolls, Rivendell and every step of their journey. Smaug is curled around the Lonely Mountain, Dain rides on his war ram and Thorin stands next to Bilbo, both underneath the Raven Crown. And Niéle, she’s placed herself next to Dwalin, snowdrops winding around them.

The dress is a masterpiece.

A true labour of love.

He looks at her and the undiluted happiness in her eyes, and knows he cannot help himself. Dwalin winds a heavy arm around Niéle’s waist and gently pulls her soft body closer, holding her steady with a broad hand splayed between her shoulder blades. Then he kisses her, long and deep and for all to see. Dwalin wants every single person in attendance to understand the depths of his love for his Niéle. He takes his time to thoroughly play with her tongue and caress her berry-red lips with all the gentleness he can muster. He can’t see when he finally lets go of her, for the tears in his eyes. Dwalin feels overwhelmed by his own feelings for his snowdrop, his _wife_.

Niéle knows, of course, and takes his face in her hands to kiss the wetness away. When he can see again it’s his turn to wipe the happy tears off her smooth cheeks.

The crowd cheers good-naturedly, apparently already having gotten used to their constant public displays of affection, and when Dwalin looks up he catches Bilbo, his Nadad and half the Company misty-eyed, even Thorin, and both Dain and Bard are smiling fondly. Bard’s son clearly wishes he could be anywhere else, but his daughters giggle – the eldest blushing every time she catches Fíli’s eye. Tauriel wears her usual ruminative, Elfish-aloof expression, but she softens decidedly when she catches Kíli’s puppy-dog eyes. Dís looks rather emotional, and Dwalin is certain it has only partially to do with him and Niéle.

Bilbo had said only a wedding where everyone cries is a good wedding. Dwalin chuckles to himself and takes Niéle’s hand.

_Aye, a good wedding it is._

As they walk back inside the bells of Dale chime in the distance to mark the occasion, answered by Erebor’s horns, and thousands of flower petals rain down on them, thrown by hundreds of eager hands all along the balustrades and higher parapets, bathing them in a shower of blooms. Niéle laughs, breathless and giddy, clear like a silver bell, gripping his hand tightly.

Inside the mountain the ceremony is following the Khazâd traditions and Niéle is deposited at the far end of the Hall of Kings with Bilbo, awaiting Balin who approaches in the name of his brother. Balin praises Bilbo’s efforts and thanks him for raising Niéle and formally asks Bilbo to allow her to leave him now to join the dwarf that wants to be her husband. Bilbo gives his consent and Balin carefully waits for her to lay her hand on his arm instead of just reaching for her and leads her across the golden floor to Dwalin.

Thorin presides this time and once their palms are pricked and their hands are bound together they speak their vows in Khuzdul.

“Heart to heart, blood to blood, breath to breath, soul to soul, we bind together our lives in a forever bond.”

Niéle has practiced a lot and manages to get through the words without a hitch. She beams up at Dwalin then, proud.

When Thorin removes the band from their joined hands Balin passes them the beads Dwalin’s made for the occasion: a carefully cut yellow diamond, split in half and encased in the most delicate nest of Mithril wire with a delicate Mithril fastening. Dwalin knows it is a Masterpiece; and the gem in the colour of the sun is perfect for his Niéle. Niéle has the tip of her tongue between her lips in concentration as she weaves the marriage braid into Dwalin’s beard and fastens it with a slightly smaller version of the bead. She’s practiced that, too, with Dís, and manages it flawlessly. As soon as Dwalin clasps the marriage braid in her hair with his bead and Thorin welcomes them to his halls as a married couple the crowd cheers again. The King congratulates Dwalin with a solid headbutt and then turns to Niéle, not reaching for her but standing still and only lightly bowing his head in silent, hesitant invitation. They look at each other for a heartbeat, then Niéle takes it as it is meant and rises on tiptoes to gently bump her forehead against Thorin’s. He smiles then, softly, and Dwalin knows she has managed to sneak into his friend’s heart. Of course her exuberant nature takes over once more and she throws her arms around Thorin’s neck and kisses his bearded cheek, leaving the King with a blush on his face.

The one good thing all the drama has had: she has gotten much better touching those of the Company and being touched in return. Hesitantly, cautiously, and she still does not like them reaching of her, but the line that used to be there has blurred. Dwalin is glad about that.

The feast follows. While the special guests find their seats at a large table on the dais, lavishly decorated with flower arrangements, linen, silver and crystals, the whole of the banquet hall is filled with folk who squeeze together on benches around long tables. There is food aplenty, and even more drink, as is befitting a wedding organized by a hobbit. Toasts are made and cheered to, and Dwalin makes sure his Niéle gets the choicest bites of everything.

When the tables are moved to the side and the music starts Dwalin goes to lead the first dance with his wife. Niéle laughs and follows him eagerly, holding on to him tightly as he guides her through the sequences. Fíli and Kíli have done well teaching her some of the more formal dances and it is obvious that she thoroughly enjoys every moment on the dance floor. Dwalin makes sure she rests every once in a while and keeps filling her cup with heavily watered down ale.

She holds up well enough and it’s only hours later Dwalin can see Niéle is tired now – even the sugar of the work of art that is the five-tiered cake cannot boost her stamina any more. She is thoroughly sated with happiness and joy and also thoroughly tired from all the excitement and the merriment the day has brought.

As he led her to their first dance he leads them to their last for the evening. The lights are dimmed and candles are being handed out. The crowd forms a lose circle around the dance floor, shining enough light that Dwalin can see his Niéle’s lovely eyes looking at him adoringly. As they dance to a slow tune the candles are blown out one by one until it’s nearly dark. They take their leave among calls of well-wishes and final congratulations.

On the way up the stairs she stumbles over tired feet and Dwalin carries her the rest of the way to their apartment.

He lights the fire in their bedchamber and they help each other out of their clothes wordlessly; Dwalin carefully drapes her masterpiece of a dress over a chair. Niéle slips into her shift and Dwalin into his night breeches. He takes the butterflies from her hair and undoes her braids. They come together in a gentle hug. Dwalin is glad that they know each other so well already and physical intimacy is not what their wedding night needs to be about. There is not that urgency between them now, only the content enjoyment of their togetherness.

They stand in the nearly dark room for a long while, hugging silently. Then Niéle shifts and smiles at him, all lovely eyes and wild hair, and she pulls him to their bed, encouraging him down to pillow his head on her belly. And they just stay there, touching gently and breathing together and relaxing into each other’s warmth.

Her fingers play with his hair and skim over his bald head, while his twirl through the long tendrils of her brown locks.

They just _are_ and it is the most peaceful Dwalin has ever felt in his life.

Because of his snowdrop.

She is his as he is hers.

It’s just that simple.

 

[Snowdrop Collage](https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/611785930609584217/)

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Makabu Thurûkhu Abkân - Study of (the) Ways of Marriage  
> Khuzdul as well as the words for the Khazad vows are from the Dwarrow Scholar  
> I indulge in visual inspiration a lot so Cuptivate has a Pinterest page. This story has its own board and you can find larger versions of the above images as well as plenty of other things.  
> https://www.pinterest.com.au/cuptivate/ (now if only I could figure out how to do tags in chapter notes ...)


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